Part 14

“Ach, dot iss no difference,” answered Rogaum pleasantly. “I haf der inner door locked, yet. Let dem sleep. Dot iss no difference.”

“Better lock it,” said the officer, more to vindicate his authority than anything else. “Something will happen there yet.”

The door was never locked, however, and now of a summer evening Mrs. Rogaum and the children made pleasant use of its recess, watching the route of street cars and occasionally belated trucks go by. The children played on the sidewalk, all except the budding Theresa (eighteen just turning), who, with one companion of the neighborhood, the pretty Kenrihan girl, walked up and down the block, laughing, glancing, watching the boys. Old Mrs. Kenrihan lived in the next block, and there, sometimes, the two stopped. There, also, they most frequently pretended to be when talking with the boys in the intervening side street. Young “Connie” Almerting and George Goujon were the bright particular mashers who held the attention of the maidens in this block. These two made their acquaintance in the customary bold, boyish way, and thereafter the girls had an urgent desire to be out in the street together after eight, and to linger where the boys could see and overtake them.

Old Mrs. Rogaum never knew. She was a particularly fat, old German lady, completely dominated by her liege and portly lord, and at nine o’clock regularly, as he had long ago deemed meet and fit, she was wont to betake her way upward and so to bed. Old Rogaum himself, at that hour, closed the market and went to his chamber.

Before that all the children were called sharply, once from the doorstep below and once from the window above, only Mrs. Rogaum did it first and Rogaum last. It had come, because of a shade of lenience, not wholly apparent in the father’s nature, that the older of the children needed two callings and sometimes three. Theresa, now that she had “got in” with the Kenrihan maiden, needed that many calls and even more.

She was just at that age for which mere thoughtless, sensory life holds its greatest charm. She loved to walk up and down in the as yet bright street where were voices and laughter, and occasionally moonlight streaming down. What a nuisance it was to be called at nine, anyhow. Why should one have to go in then, anyhow. What old fogies her parents were, wishing to go to bed so early. Mrs. Kenrihan was not so strict with her daughter. It made her pettish when Rogaum insisted, calling as he often did, in German, “Come you now,” in a very hoarse and belligerent voice.

She came, eventually, frowning and wretched, all the moonlight calling her, all the voices of the night urging her to come back. Her innate opposition due to her urgent youth made her coming later and later, however, until now, by August of this, her eighteenth year, it was nearly ten when she entered, and Rogaum was almost invariably angry.

“I vill lock you oudt,” he declared, in strongly accented English, while she tried to slip by him each time. “I vill show you. Du sollst come ven I say, yet. Hear now.”

“I’ll not,” answered Theresa, but it was always under her breath.

Poor Mrs. Rogaum troubled at hearing the wrath in her husband’s voice. It spoke of harder and fiercer times which had been with her. Still she was not powerful enough in the family councils to put in a weighty word. So Rogaum fumed unrestricted.

There were other nights, however, many of them, and now that the young sparks of the neighborhood had enlisted the girls’ attention, it was a more trying time than ever. Never did a street seem more beautiful. Its shabby red walls, dusty pavements and protruding store steps and iron railings seemed bits of the ornamental paraphernalia of heaven itself. These lights, the cars, the moon, the street lamps! Theresa had a tender eye for the dashing Almerting, a young idler and loafer of the district, the son of a stationer farther up the street. What a fine fellow he was, indeed! What a handsome nose and chin! What eyes! What authority! His cigarette was always cocked at a high angle, in her presence, and his hat had the least suggestion of being set to one side. He had a shrewd way of winking one eye, taking her boldly by the arm, hailing her as, “Hey, Pretty!” and was strong and athletic and worked (when he worked) in a tobacco factory. His was a trade, indeed, nearly acquired, as he said, and his jingling pockets attested that he had money of his own. Altogether he was very captivating.

“Aw, whaddy ya want to go in for?” he used to say to her, tossing his head gayly on one side to listen and holding her by the arm, as old Rogaum called. “Tell him yuh didn’t hear.”

“No, I’ve got to go,” said the girl, who was soft and plump and fair--a Rhine maiden type.

“Well, yuh don’t have to go just yet. Stay another minute. George, what was that fellow’s name that tried to sass us the other day?”

“Theresa!” roared old Rogaum forcefully. “If you do not now come! Ve vill see!”

“I’ve got to go,” repeated Theresa with a faint effort at starting. “Can’t you hear? Don’t hold me. I haf to.”

“Aw, whaddy ya want to be such a coward for? Y’ don’t have to go. He won’t do nothin’ tuh yuh. My old man was always hollerin’ like that up tuh a coupla years ago. Let him holler! Say, kid, but yuh got sweet eyes! They’re as blue! An’ your mouth----”

“Now stop! You hear me!” Theresa would protest softly, as, swiftly, he would slip an arm about her waist and draw her to him, sometimes in a vain, sometimes in a successful effort to kiss her.

As a rule she managed to interpose an elbow between her face and his, but even then he would manage to touch an ear or a cheek or her neck--sometimes her mouth, full and warm--before she would develop sufficient energy to push him away and herself free. Then she would protest mock earnestly or sometimes run away.

“Now, I’ll never speak to you any more, if that’s the way you’re going to do. My father don’t allow me to kiss boys, anyhow,” and then she would run, half ashamed, half smiling to herself as he would stare after her, or if she lingered, develop a kind of anger and even rage.

“Aw, cut it! Whaddy ya want to be so shy for? Don’tcha like me? What’s gettin’ into yuh, anyhow? Hey?”

In the meantime George Goujon and Myrtle Kenrihan, their companions, might be sweeting and going through a similar contest, perhaps a hundred feet up the street or near at hand. The quality of old Rogaum’s voice would by now have become so raucous, however, that Theresa would have lost all comfort in the scene and, becoming frightened, hurry away. Then it was often that both Almerting and Goujon as well as Myrtle Kenrihan would follow her to the corner, almost in sight of the irate old butcher.

“Let him call,” young Almerting would insist, laying a final hold on her soft white fingers and causing her to quiver thereby.

“Oh, no,” she would gasp nervously. “I can’t.”

“Well, go on, then,” he would say, and with a flip of his heel would turn back, leaving Theresa to wonder whether she had alienated him forever or no. Then she would hurry to her father’s door.

“Muss ich all my time spenden calling, mit you on de streeds oudt?” old Rogaum would roar wrathfully, the while his fat hand would descend on her back. “Take dot now. Vy don’d you come ven I call? In now. I vill show you. Und come you yussed vunce more at dis time--ve vill see if I am boss in my own house, aber! Komst du vun minute nach ten to-morrow und you vill see vot you vill get. I vill der door lock. Du sollst not in kommen. Mark! Oudt sollst du stayen--oudt!” and he would glare wrathfully at her retreating figure.

Sometimes Theresa would whimper, sometimes cry or sulk. She almost hated her father for his cruelty, “the big, fat, rough thing,” and just because she wanted to stay out in the bright streets, too! Because he was old and stout and wanted to go to bed at ten, he thought every one else did. And outside was the dark sky with its stars, the street lamps, the cars, the tinkle and laughter of eternal life!

“Oh!” she would sigh as she undressed and crawled into her small neat bed. To think that she had to live like this all her days! At the same time old Rogaum was angry and equally determined. It was not so much that he imagined that his Theresa was in bad company as yet, but he wished to forefend against possible danger. This was not a good neighborhood by any means. The boys around here were tough. He wanted Theresa to pick some nice sober youth from among the other Germans he and his wife knew here and there--at the Lutheran Church, for instance. Otherwise she shouldn’t marry. He knew she only walked from his shop to the door of the Kenrihans and back again. Had not his wife told him so? If he had thought upon what far pilgrimage her feet had already ventured, or had even seen the dashing Almerting hanging near, then had there been wrath indeed. As it was, his mind was more or less at ease.

On many, many evenings it was much the same. Sometimes she got in on time, sometimes not, but more and more “Connie” Almerting claimed her for his “steady,” and bought her ice-cream. In the range of the short block and its confining corners it was all done, lingering by the curbstone and strolling a half block either way in the side streets, until she had offended seriously at home, and the threat was repeated anew. He often tried to persuade her to go on picnics or outings of various kinds, but this, somehow, was not to be thought of at her age--at least with him. She knew her father would never endure the thought, and never even had the courage to mention it, let alone run away. Mere lingering with him at the adjacent street corners brought stronger and stronger admonishments--even more blows and the threat that she should not get in at all.

Well enough she meant to obey, but on one radiant night late in June the time fled too fast. The moon was so bright, the air so soft. The feel of far summer things was in the wind and even in this dusty street. Theresa, in a newly starched white summer dress, had been loitering up and down with Myrtle when as usual they encountered Almerting and Goujon. Now it was ten, and the regular calls were beginning.

“Aw, wait a minute,” said “Connie.” “Stand still. He won’t lock yuh out.”

“But he will, though,” said Theresa. “You don’t know him.”

“Well, if he does, come on back to me. I’ll take care of yuh. I’ll be here. But he won’t though. If you stayed out a little while he’d letcha in all right. That’s the way my old man used to try to do me but it didn’t work with me. I stayed out an’ he let me in, just the same. Don’tcha let him kidja.” He jingled some loose change in his pocket.

Never in his life had he had a girl on his hands at any unseasonable hour, but it was nice to talk big, and there was a club to which he belonged, The Varick Street Roosters, and to which he had a key. It would be closed and empty at this hour, and she could stay there until morning, if need be or with Myrtle Kenrihan. He would take her there if she insisted. There was a sinister grin on the youth’s face.

By now Theresa’s affections had carried her far. This youth with his slim body, his delicate strong hands, his fine chin, straight mouth and hard dark eyes--how wonderful he seemed! He was but nineteen to her eighteen but cold, shrewd, daring. Yet how tender he seemed to her, how well worth having! Always, when he kissed her now, she trembled in the balance. There was something in the iron grasp of his fingers that went through her like fire. His glance held hers at times when she could scarcely endure it.

“I’ll wait, anyhow,” he insisted.

Longer and longer she lingered, but now for once no voice came.

She began to feel that something was wrong--a greater strain than if old Rogaum’s voice had been filling the whole neighborhood.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Gee, but you’re a coward, yuh are!” said he derisively. “What ’r yuh always so scared about? He always says he’ll lock yuh out, but he never does.”

“Yes, but he will,” she insisted nervously. “I think he has this time. You don’t know him. He’s something awful when he gets real mad. Oh, Connie, I must go!” For the sixth or seventh time she moved, and once more he caught her arm and waist and tried to kiss her, but she slipped away from him.

“Ah, yuh!” he exclaimed. “I wish he would lock yuh out!”

At her own doorstep she paused momentarily, more to soften her progress than anything. The outer door was open as usual, but not the inner. She tried it, but it would not give. It was locked! For a moment she paused, cold fear racing over her body, and then knocked.

No answer.

Again she rattled the door, this time nervously, and was about to cry out.

Still no answer.

At last she heard her father’s voice, hoarse and indifferent, not addressed to her at all, but to her mother.

“Let her go, now,” it said savagely, from the front room where he supposed she could not hear. “I vill her a lesson teach.”

“Hadn’t you better let her in now, yet?” pleaded Mrs. Rogaum faintly.

“No,” insisted Mr. Rogaum. “Nefer! Let her go now. If she vill alvays stay oudt, let her stay now. Ve vill see how she likes dot.”

His voice was rich in wrath, and he was saving up a good beating for her into the bargain, that she knew. She would have to wait and wait and plead, and when she was thoroughly wretched and subdued he would let her in and beat her--such a beating as she had never received in all her born days.

Again the door rattled, and still she got no answer. Not even her call brought a sound.

Now, strangely, a new element, not heretofore apparent in her nature but nevertheless wholly there, was called into life, springing in action as Diana, full formed. Why should he always be so harsh? She hadn’t done anything but stay out a little later than usual. He was always so anxious to keep her in and subdue her. For once the cold chill of her girlish fears left her, and she wavered angrily.

“All right,” she said, some old German stubbornness springing up, “I won’t knock. You don’t need to let me in, then.”

A suggestion of tears was in her eyes, but she backed firmly out onto the stoop and sat down, hesitating. Old Rogaum saw her, lowering down from the lattice, but said nothing. He would teach her for once what were proper hours!

At the corner, standing, Almerting also saw her. He recognized the simple white dress, and paused steadily, a strange thrill racing over him. Really they had locked her out! Gee, this was new. It was great, in a way. There she was, white, quiet, shut out, waiting at her father’s doorstep.

Sitting thus, Theresa pondered a moment, her girlish rashness and anger dominating her. Her pride was hurt and she felt revengeful. They would shut her out, would they? All right, she would go out and they should look to it how they would get her back--the old curmudgeons. For the moment the home of Myrtle Kenrihan came to her as a possible refuge, but she decided that she need not go there yet. She had better wait about awhile and see--or walk and frighten them. He would beat her, would he? Well, maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t. She might come back, but still that was a thing afar off. Just now it didn’t matter so much. “Connie” was still there on the corner. He loved her dearly. She felt it.

Getting up, she stepped to the now quieting sidewalk and strolled up the street. It was a rather nervous procedure, however. There were street cars still, and stores lighted and people passing, but soon these would not be, and she was locked out. The side streets were already little more than long silent walks and gleaming rows of lamps.

At the corner her youthful lover almost pounced upon her.

“Locked out, are yuh?” he asked, his eyes shining.

For the moment she was delighted to see him, for a nameless dread had already laid hold of her. Home meant so much. Up to now it had been her whole life.

“Yes,” she answered feebly.

“Well, let’s stroll on a little,” said the boy. He had not as yet quite made up his mind what to do, but the night was young. It was so fine to have her with him--his.

At the farther corner they passed Officers Maguire and Delahanty, idly swinging their clubs and discussing politics.

“’Tis a shame,” Officer Delahanty was saying, “the way things are run now,” but he paused to add, “Ain’t that old Rogaum’s girl over there with young Almerting?”

“It is,” replied Maguire, looking after.

“Well, I’m thinkin’ he’d better be keepin’ an eye on her,” said the former. “She’s too young to be runnin’ around with the likes o’ him.”

Maguire agreed. “He’s a young tough,” he observed. “I never liked him. He’s too fresh. He works over here in Myer’s tobacco factory, and belongs to The Roosters. He’s up to no good, I’ll warrant that.”

“Teach ’em a lesson, I would,” Almerting was saying to Theresa as they strolled on. “We’ll walk around a while an’ make ’em think yuh mean business. They won’t lock yuh out any more. If they don’t let yuh in when we come back I’ll find yuh a place, all right.”

His sharp eyes were gleaming as he looked around into her own. Already he had made up his mind that she should not go back if he could help it. He knew a better place than home for this night, anyhow--the club room of the Roosters, if nowhere else. They could stay there for a time, anyhow.

By now old Rogaum, who had seen her walking up the street alone, was marveling at her audacity, but thought she would soon come back. It was amazing that she should exhibit such temerity, but he would teach her! Such a whipping! At half-past ten, however, he stuck his head out of the open window and saw nothing of her. At eleven, the same. Then he walked the floor.

At first wrathful, then nervous, then nervous and wrathful, he finally ended all nervous, without a scintilla of wrath. His stout wife sat up in bed and began to wring her hands.

“Lie down!” he commanded. “You make me sick. I know vot I am doing!”

“Is she still at der door?” pleaded the mother.

“No,” he said. “I don’t tink so. She should come ven I call.”

His nerves were weakening, however, and now they finally collapsed.

“She vent de stread up,” he said anxiously after a time. “I vill go after.”

Slipping on his coat, he went down the stairs and out into the night. It was growing late, and the stillness and gloom of midnight were nearing. Nowhere in sight was his Theresa. First one way and then another he went, looking here, there, everywhere, finally groaning.

“Ach, Gott!” he said, the sweat bursting out on his brow, “vot in Teufel’s name iss dis?”

He thought he would seek a policeman, but there was none. Officer Maguire had long since gone for a quiet game in one of the neighboring saloons. His partner had temporarily returned to his own beat. Still old Rogaum hunted on, worrying more and more.

Finally he bethought him to hasten home again, for she must have got back. Mrs. Rogaum, too, would be frantic if she had not. If she were not there he must go to the police. Such a night! And his Theresa---- This thing could not go on.

As he turned into his own corner he almost ran, coming up to the little portico wet and panting. At a puffing step he turned, and almost fell over a white body at his feet, a prone and writhing woman.

“Ach, Gott!” he cried aloud, almost shouting in his distress and excitement. “Theresa, vot iss dis? Wilhelmina, a light now. Bring a light now, I say, for himmel’s sake! Theresa hat sich _umgebracht_. Help!”

He had fallen to his knees and was turning over the writhing, groaning figure. By the pale light of the street, however, he could make out that it was not his Theresa, fortunately, as he had at first feared, but another and yet there was something very like her in the figure.

“Um!” said the stranger weakly. “Ah!”

The dress was gray, not white as was his Theresa’s, but the body was round and plump. It cut the fiercest cords of his intensity, this thought of death to a young woman, but there was something else about the situation which made him forget his own troubles.

Mrs. Rogaum, loudly admonished, almost tumbled down the stairs. At the foot she held the light she had brought--a small glass oil-lamp--and then nearly dropped it. A fairly attractive figure, more girl than woman, rich in all the physical charms that characterize a certain type, lay near to dying. Her soft hair had fallen back over a good forehead, now quite white. Her pretty hands, well decked with rings, were clutched tightly in an agonized grip. At her neck a blue silk shirtwaist and light lace collar were torn away where she had clutched herself, and on the white flesh was a yellow stain as of one who had been burned. A strange odor reeked in the area, and in one corner was a spilled bottle.

“Ach, Gott!” exclaimed Mrs. Rogaum. “It iss a vooman! She haf herself gekilt. Run for der police! Oh, my! oh, my!”

Rogaum did not kneel for more than a moment. Somehow, this creature’s fate seemed in some psychic way identified with that of his own daughter. He bounded up, and jumping out his front door, began to call lustily for the police. Officer Maguire, at his social game nearby, heard the very first cry and came running.

“What’s the matter here, now?” he exclaimed, rushing up full and ready for murder, robbery, fire, or, indeed, anything in the whole roster of human calamities.

“A vooman!” said Rogaum excitedly. “She haf herself _umgebracht_. She iss dying. Ach, Gott! in my own doorstep, yet!”

“Vere iss der hospital?” put in Mrs. Rogaum, thinking clearly of an ambulance, but not being able to express it. “She iss gekilt, sure. Oh! Oh!” and bending over her the poor old motherly soul stroked the tightened hands, and trickled tears upon the blue shirtwaist. “Ach, vy did you do dot?” she said. “Ach, for vy?”

Officer Maguire was essentially a man of action. He jumped to the sidewalk, amid the gathering company, and beat loudly with his club upon the stone flagging. Then he ran to the nearest police phone, returning to aid in any other way he might. A milk wagon passing on its way from the Jersey ferry with a few tons of fresh milk aboard, he held it up and demanded a helping.

“Give us a quart there, will you?” he said authoritatively. “A woman’s swallowed acid in here.”

“Sure,” said the driver, anxious to learn the cause of the excitement. “Got a glass, anybody?”

Maguire ran back and returned, bearing a measure. Mrs. Rogaum stood looking nervously on, while the stocky officer raised the golden head and poured the milk.

“Here, now, drink this,” he said. “Come on. Try an’ swallow it.”

The girl, a blonde of the type the world too well knows, opened her eyes, and looked, groaning a little.

“Drink it,” shouted the officer fiercely. “Do you want to die? Open your mouth!”

Used to a fear of the law in all her days, she obeyed now, even in death. The lips parted, the fresh milk was drained to the end, some spilling on neck and cheek.

While they were working old Rogaum came back and stood looking on, by the side of his wife. Also Officer Delahanty, having heard the peculiar wooden ring of the stick upon the stone in the night, had come up.

“Ach, ach,” exclaimed Rogaum rather distractedly, “und she iss oudt yet. I could not find her. Oh, oh!”

There was a clang of a gong up the street as the racing ambulance turned rapidly in. A young hospital surgeon dismounted, and seeing the woman’s condition, ordered immediate removal. Both officers and Rogaum, as well as the surgeon, helped place her in the ambulance. After a moment the lone bell, ringing wildly in the night, was all the evidence remaining that a tragedy had been here.

“Do you know how she came here?” asked Officer Delahanty, coming back to get Rogaum’s testimony for the police.

“No, no,” answered Rogaum wretchedly. “She vass here alretty. I vass for my daughter loog. Ach, himmel, I haf my daughter lost. She iss avay.”