Part 4

Erna had always felt that Nielsen was human. It now come as a realization. She gave him a final penetrating glance. He smiled frankly, and she had to smile as well. "All right," she resigned.

"You're a good sport, Erna," he complimented her. "But you're too trusting, I'm afraid."

"Think so?"

"Yes."

She looked somewhat doubtful, and then her face cleared. Nielsen understood.

"Your order's ready, Erna," came Landsmann's voice.

And the girl hurried out.

VIII

Erna was in a splendid mood when she called on Nielsen that evening. In the first place, the young Norwegian-American had earned her gratitude. Secondly, and what is perhaps more important, Jimmy Allen had come into Landsmann's both for the noon and the evening meal and had paid her humble devotion. She had agreed to spend to-morrow evening with him, but principally that she might add coal to the fire of his impatience by putting off her answer, which she had not formed as yet but in the existence of which she had succeeded in leading him to believe. Thirdly, she had had two more tilts with Landsmann and was victorious in both. Consequently, Erna was in high spirit. In addition, her greedy nature was looking forward to the new sensation that life might be on the point of offering her in Nielsen.

It was evident at once that he was likewise in the best of humor. His greeting of Erna was of the heartiest cordiality and cheer. And he required only a minute or two to settle her comfortably on the couch and to make her feel otherwise at home. She was not surprised. On the contrary, she entered immediately into the mood of the young writer's hospitality.

"Well, Rat-wife, how've you been?" he commenced. "I haven't seen you since this morning."

"Why do you call me Rat-wife?"

"Because you're a professional rat catcher."

"I've caught rats before," she confessed.

"Have you? Great! I always thought you must have had another vocation in life."

"But I hate caterpillars, don't you?" she declared naïvely.

"By all means," he agreed. "They give one the fuzzy-wuzzies, don't they?"

They both laughed. He drew his chair closer to the couch and watched her frankly. She watched him with equal candor. There was honest admiration in his next remark: "You're strong, aren't you, Erna?"

"Yes."

"How'd you get that way?" he pursued.

"I must 'a' been born that way. I guess my father an' mother were strong an' healthy. Any way, I exercise a great deal--"

"In the store, you mean?"

"No, at night, by the open window, in--"

"Not in the nude?" he ventured.

"Not quite, but almost!" she admitted, and they laughed again.

"But Erna, what made you say you _guess_ your father and mother were strong? Don't you know whether they were? Aren't they alive?"

She looked at him suddenly, but his straightforward glance reassured her. She announced quietly: "I never saw my parents."

"What?" he broke out. "Then how--but I beg your pardon, child. I didn't mean to be inquisitive."

"You're not inquisitive," she returned with unaccustomed seriousness. "Only--"

"I understand," he interrupted. "Don't speak of it! It's too painful. Besides, we mustn't be growing gloomy."

Erna was meditative. She had never confided that part of her life to any one. It might be nice to unburden some of it. And Mr. Nielsen--he was so--She glanced at him.

"Please don't!" he requested. "I'd much rather you wouldn't."

She smiled and said: "It isn't so sad; it's just kind o' funny."

"Well, if it's funny, out with it, but if it isn't--"

"It's kind o' funny that I should be tellin' at all."

"To me, you mean?"

"Yes!"

"That's easy. You trust me; that's the reason," he explained jocularly.

"Do I? How do you know?"

"Oh, I'm a wise old know-it-all. Which is certainly a nice bunch of conceit, isn't it?"

"No," she denied good-humoredly.

Without pretense of any sort, and completely at her ease sitting there on the couch only a yard or two from him, she gave Nielsen a few points in her knowledge of past years. Briefly, she laid claim to having lived nearly all her life with adopted parents, from whom, thanks to their continued selfishness and maltreatment, she had run away about a year ago. These people had once informed her that her father had married some woman of position in Bohemia, where Erna was born, and that, having squandered her money, he had disappeared for good. Her mother had died in giving birth to her, and her adopted parents, related to him as cousins, had received her indirectly through some friends of her father's, as well as money, through various mysterious channels, up to her sixth year. The remittances stopped suddenly, and she was left a beggar on their hands, a fact of which they were often careful to remind her. At the age of twelve or thirteen, Erna had hunted for and found a situation, and later others, and had been able to pay some sort of board through the intervening years. But her "parents," who had five children of their own, despised her and maltreated her accordingly, as did the children, guided by the elders' precepts. Only her strength of body and endowed pugnaciousness had saved her from greater maltreatment.

"And this you call a funny story?" demanded Nielsen, stopping her.

"There's nothing so very sad in it," she declared stubbornly.

"There isn't?"

"No."

His admiration for her developed. Erna certainly possessed sterling qualities.

"But I haven't finished," she interposed.

"Never mind, Erna. I've heard enough."

"You haven't heard why I quit my 'parents'."

"I don't have to," he tried to stop her.

"There's only a little to it."

"Well?"

"They tried to sell me."

"What?"

"Just what I said."

"What do you mean?"

"They tried to sell me to an old admirer o' mine in Paterson."

"You must be crazy, child."

"No more'n you," she insisted. "The man was all ready with his money an'--"

"But this is impossible," he interrupted.

"No, it isn't. I ought to know. It made me jump the track."

"That's how you ran away?"

"Yes."

"A year ago?"

"Yes. It was the last straw. They'd tried the same game twice before. I was through."

Nielsen eyed her in sympathy. He had not credited the whole of her story, incoherent and almost imaginary as some of its details sounded, but the climax had moved him deeply. He was not as superficial as his outward demeanor might indicate. But he was still a diplomat, and knowing Erna's nature better than ever now, did not offer her open sympathy. Instead, he questioned: "So you wandered around New York looking for jobs?"

"Yes."

"Till you landed at Landsmann's?"

"Oh no, I had two other jobs before that."

"Where?"

"At other bakeries, but I was fired."

"For--for sassing back?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes, just as I sass old Landsmann."

He grew serious. "Hadn't you better be careful?"

"How?"

"About angering Landsmann?"

"I can't help it. I hate him. I hate Germans. My 'parents' were German an'--"

"He may fire you too."

"I don't care."

"But you don't want to be forced to run about New York again, do you?"

Erna was about to break out, thinking of Jimmy, "I won't have to," but substituted staring at Nielsen. He was so fine, so human, so--

"Never mind, Erna! Let's talk of something more cheerful." Suddenly, it was his turn to look thoughtful. Before he was aware of himself, he commenced: "Erna!"

"Yes?"

"If you ever need anybody--"

"Yes?"

"I mean in case you should ever lose your job--"

"Yes?"

"Don't hesitate to come to me for help."

He had spoken in a more earnest tone than was his custom. Erna looked quantities of gratitude. "Do you mean--"

"Yes," he forestalled her. "I'm a man, Erna, or a part o' one. I know you're a good sport, I've seen so much evidence of it. In fact, you're as good and probably a better sport than I am"--all this with a return to banter--"so it's up to me, if you ever need assistance."

Erna was unable to reply.

"Will you?" he requested more quietly.

"Yes," she agreed, and was silent.

Presently, he came back to the whimsical. "We're a funeral party, aren't we?"

"No."

"Well, we can start a partnership as funeral directors to bury the past, can't we?"

"Sure!"

Nielsen laughed, and she followed his example.

"Erna, I envy you," he started again.

"Why?"

"Nothing downs you long. You're such a happy Indian that you're able to run your world."

"Am I?"

"Yes. It takes happy people to run the world, you know."

"Does it?"

"Certainly. That's my humble belief anyhow. Dost believe in philosophy?"

"No time for it!" she returned.

"You're right," he applauded. "It's only a pastime for lemon natures. Stick to your joy, Erna!"

Erna was indulging in more abstract matters than she had ever attempted, for she said: "I can't help it, I suppose. I love joy and happy people. An' fresh air, strength, freedom." But it was Nielsen's fault, he used such a subtle method of probing her.

"That'll do, Erna," he interrupted. "You have spoken. There is nothing to be added to fresh air, the breeder of strength, the breeder of freedom. This ought to be enough philosophy for one day, eh? We'll have headaches soon, won't we?"

"Not me!" she denied, and he laughed and added: "Then I'll close the sermon with a little text, if I may."

"Go ahead."

"Whatever happens," he bantered her; "stick to your freedom with your last dying breath!"

"Thanks!"

The evening developed even further intimacy. And Erna soon came to realize that she had discovered her new sensation. As for Nielsen, he was spending an unusual evening too. Several times, he thought of Jimmy Allen and his connection with Erna. He was a splendid joyous animal like her. It did not surprise him that he had been restored to her favor, they were so well mated. And he recalled the short but significant scene he had spoiled that morning.

Erna, surely, was a rare nature,--hard, perhaps, selfish and cruel in many ways too, quite a little more so than others, but her strength of will, self reliance and her stubborn pursuit of pleasure and excitement--her life of joy--were irresistible. And she was only a waitress. But she was far more than that, an individual, as Carstairs had vaunted that time; she had lived a life harder to endure than that loaded upon his educated acquaintances, for example, and yet, she, lacking their knowledge and so called experience and wisdom, controlled life; life did not control her. And Nielsen, who seldom overlooked dissecting himself along with others, admitted readily that Erna attracted him powerfully, and not in the name of the story, which he had forgotten--for the present, anyhow.

Erna's mind was making more rapid calculations than ever before. "Stick to your freedom!" he had advised her. It was true. She must go on fighting for that. But what of Jimmy--and marriage? Marriage, that word with a bad taste, marriage even with Jimmy would steal a good portion of her freedom. She must be careful. Besides, her power over Jimmy was so easy just the same. And Nielsen, that puzzling human man, disconcerted her. He was different from Jimmy. He was strong physically too, if not quite as handsome, and he possessed a strong heart and mind, which Jimmy did not. But his constant joking--was he really serious? She never knew just where to find him, he eluded her so. If she were to marry, she would never see him again, a prospect her greediness did not like to consider, as she sat there slyly watching him, clothed in that easy, cheerful, even-tempered strength of his.

Erna and Nielsen did not leave the latter's workshop until close upon midnight. The rest of the time had passed swiftly and pleasantly. Their parting was warm to a decided degree. And they made an appointment for the following Friday evening.

"I'll be a night owl soon," she complained.

"Oh no--you'll always be a Rat-wife," he corrected.

She pressed the book under her arm--Ibsen's "Little Eyolf," which he had lent her--and laughed.

"Now, don't forget my text," he warned her gently, as they stood on the dark street corner near Landsmann's, their hands clasped in friendly embrace.

"I won't."

"And if there's any real trouble with Landsmann?"

"Yes, I will," she agreed.

He pressed her hand.

"Good-night," she said.

"Good-night," he returned.

And they separated. But they both looked back twice and waved their hands--in the old fashioned way.

IX

"An order of mocha tart, Erna!"

It was Bainbridge Breen who had spoken. The girl left the dining room with a cheery: "All right!" The young artist turned to his friends, Carstairs and Nielsen, who were sitting with him at the rear table: "Mocha tart is still the prince of Landsmann pastries."

"You've made up with Erna, I see," Nielsen ventured quietly.

"Oh, of course! I'm too busy a man to spend any time harboring animosity. Besides, I guess I'm sufficiently broad-minded to forgive the girl her indiscretion."

"And on her side, she's too light-hearted to hold animosity," the author supplied.

"I expect so," Breen agreed generously, and then challenged: "But how about _you_ and Erna? And how about your story?"

"Haven't been able to finish it as yet," Nielsen returned somewhat evasively.

"Haven't had enough opportunity for _studying_ Erna?"

"No, I'm not quite through."

Breen laughed significantly, and Carstairs flushed.

"Then you haven't reached your decision as regards Erna's morals?" the painter continued.

"Not just yet!" was Nielsen's response, keyed in deeper evasiveness.

"You'll reach my conclusion absolutely," Breen closed confidently. "She's a moral little thing."

"Of course," Carstairs interposed indignantly.

"Whoop-la!" cried Breen. "So you've come to _your_ decision, Brother John? How did it happen, you sly dog?"

"I haven't come to any decision," Carstairs denied wearily. "I told you in the beginning what I thought of Erna."

"That's so," Breen gave in with a tone of fatherly wisdom. "But when and where did you find opportunity to strengthen your belief? You haven't been coming here very often of late?"

"That's my affair," Carstairs retorted.

He was in a melancholy mood. Erna had been neglecting him since their evening together. Moreover, she had treated him with more or less indifference as well, as though his visits bored her, and had allowed him no opening for inviting her again.

Nielsen wisely changed the subject: "Been doing much work lately, John?"

"Yes, I've been busy."

"What are you doing?"

"I've been writing a little set of piano songs," he rejoined.

"Good for you!" Breen applauded. "There's nothing like work after all, and we all seem engaged to that lady at present. She's the best wife in the world."

Nielsen smiled philosophically, but the tired expression had revisited Carstairs' face. The trio continued eating their supper, and the conversation strayed to other and less personal topics.

That same evening, Erna was to meet Jimmy Allen. The hero of Landsmann's was well ahead of their appointment time, for he was strangely excited. He had some news to impart to Erna.

She was ten minutes late. He did not call her attention to the fact, but greeted her boisterously and began: "Gee, Erna! I got great news for you."

"Have you?" she replied with well feigned indifference.

"What do you think? Nolan's offered to let us have the rooms free for one month."

"Did he?"

"Sure! What do you think o' that? Ain't he the pippin? Ain't he the classy guy?"

She did not answer. They were walking slowly. He grabbed her arm. "What's the matter now?" he demanded.

"Nothin'."

"You said you'd made up your mind," he maintained anxiously.

"I said: not quite," she corrected him.

"Oh, but you have, Erna," he pleaded. "You'll join hands with me? You're sick o' Landsmann's. You--we're stuck on each other, an' the minister's--Well, wait'll you see the flat!" he broke off. "That'll settle it. Wait'll you see the _flat_!"

"Why?"

"I'm takin' you there," he informed her eagerly.

"Now?"

"Of course!" he cajoled her. "You'll come, won't you?" and he squeezed her arm. "There's no harm in it. You don't have to like the place? It don't hurt to see it?"

"No."

"Then we'll go."

Erna was busy eyeing a millinery show window.

"How about it?" he questioned.

"All right."

He sighed with relief and satisfaction.

* * * * *

There were two rooms and a bath. The furnishings were fairly attractive--garish in some respects, but on the whole, adequate. Erna admitted to herself that they surpassed her expectation, the garish qualities, no doubt, appealing to her love of life and violent color. But she made no such admission to Jimmy.

He was watching her with wide open eyes. Gradually, his anxiety forsook him and his natural cheerfulness appeared. "Well?" he asked quietly.

Erna continued reticent. Neither of the rooms compared with Mr. Nielsen's, which was so wonderfully cosy, but she could easily improve them. Her woman's housekeeper instinct declared itself; it would be nice to occupy herself making changes here and there. And it would be a nice place to spend a few lazy hours every day, it was such a fine little apartment. Best of all, it would be her first home.... Erna studied the large couch for the first time and hesitated. "Stick to your freedom!" he had advised her. Marriage? No, marriage would not be so nice. Still, strong, broad shouldered, handsome, happy Jimmy was standing right near her. She glanced his way.

"Well?" he repeated.

Erna looked away.

"What's the matter?" he asked, and approached a little.

She did not answer.... That other time matters were different. She had not felt as drawn to him then as she had since his return. His offer of money that day--well, it had been an honest one: he had cared for her, and he had been her best friend in those days. She must do him that much justice. And he was offering her much more now. She hated Landsmann's more and more. She could not endure the place many days longer. And this would be her first home. But suppose she should want to change--as she had done so often before, due to her hatred of any steady existence? Her hands would be tied. Marriage meant loss of freedom. She cared for Jimmy, yes, but not quite enough. If she were only given more time for a decision! Perhaps, Mr. Nielsen would help her to decide. But she would not ask _him_.

"What's the matter?" Jimmy demanded once more and with returning anxiety. He came closer.

Erna turned toward him. She cast aside the part she usually played with him, and gave him the first honest glance he had received from her in several days. He quickly put his arm about her shoulders.

Erna turned her head away and tried to pull back, but his other arm found its way about her. "Erna!" he begged for the last time.

She commenced to struggle. His instincts of battle were aroused; and his exasperation of nearly two years' standing seized this opportunity. Heedless of her cries, he tightened his grip and pressed her breast against his with brutal strength. There was a moment of tugging and swaying. Suddenly, Erna raised her face, and he kissed her mouth with the same undeniable brutality. The girl no longer struggled. But he would not let her go.

At length, she tried to break away, but his strength was much greater than hers. He continued to weaken her, strong and stubborn though she was, by more unmerciful kisses and embraces. Erna attempted to beat his breast with what freedom her hands were permitted and not succeeding, kicked his shins. But Jimmy, laughing with joy and suffering with passion, hugged her with such finality that she was left powerless.

As usual, that old but simple law of physics, concerning the continued contact of bodies, was vindicated. Soon after, it was satisfied. Erna and Jimmy did not rise from the couch for nearly three hours.

Erna was tired, but happy. She looked at Jimmy. He laughed. She laughed too. And then they laughed together. Suddenly, she became serious.

"What's the trouble?" he questioned.

Erna looked at him differently now, but her seriousness soon fled. After all, just as posing for Breen had not been quite new to her, so her present experience was not quite new. Furthermore, Erna possessed unlimited gameness. Life had never been able to throw her for a long fall. Therefore, her boldness returned. Jimmy laughed as before, and she joined him once more.

"All right?" he requested.

"Yes!"

He got up. She watched him dress. He was slow and careless in the performance. But her attention was absorbed by the muscular play of his splendid body.

"Well?" he asked smiling.

"Well what?" she challenged.

"What makes you stare?"

"Nothin'!"

"Am I nothin'?"

"Yes!"

He laughed with his usual readiness, and content, turned his back on her with lazy ease and walked over to the mirror. Erna frowned slightly. Somehow, his "I" had put her on her old guard. It seemed to spell property, as did his care-free satisfaction with himself. Erna watched him with glances sharpened by caution.

But it was necessary to dress. She was beginning to feel chilly. Without getting up, she slipped on her waist, that had been lying nearby on the floor.

Jimmy Allen's mood had reached a state of hopeless disregard. He committed a decided blunder. With cheerful candor, he asked, without troubling himself to turn around: "Erna! When do we move in?"

She gave his back an indignant glance. "What did you say?"

"I said: when do we move in?"

Her instinct was up in arms. Throwing coolness into her reply, she returned deliberately: "Not until doomsday."

He stopped fixing his tie. But he continued: "You're gettin' crazy again."

"I'm not," she replied without changing her tone. "I said: not until doomsday."

He turned toward her, smiling. But the smile left his face. "What's the matter now?" he asked, coming forward.

"Go on dressin'!" she commanded, his smile having started her petulance.

He, however, had come over to the couch and now stood over her, staring at her stupidly. She looked up at him, animosity in her glance. His vapid expression deepened.

"Well?" she challenged.

"Sore?" he asked humbly.

"No!"

He tried to study her. Gradually, light penetrated his cloudy understanding: Erna was just like other women. Luckily, some stroke of intuition prompted him not to turn away this time. Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders and said with unaccustomed seriousness: "Erna! Don't be sore."

"I'm not sore," she resented.

"I know--but--"

"You don't have to explain," she cried melodramatically. Strange to say, Erna seemed ready to cry.

At a loss, Jimmy tried philosophy: "'Cause life is Hell to some folks, Erna, we don't have to imitate 'em, do we?" He could not tell whether she was listening. "Gimme a chance!" he added more cheerfully. "Quit the beanery an' gimme a chance! I don't want life to be Hell for you. Gimme the chance, won't you?" He waited, but she did not look up. "You listenin'?"

"Yes," she said.

"Then quit the beanery, Erna! We can live nice an' cosy an' happy here, can't we? You like it here?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"Let's get the minister then!" he concluded quietly.

She removed his hands from her shoulders.

"Erna!" he repeated.

"Wait a moment," she cut him short, although in a milder tone.

"Stick to your freedom!" he had advised her. He was so human that he understood everything. And yet, Jimmy--if she were not forced to decide so soon!

Her strength came back under the influence of this tonic. A little of her innate cheerfulness revived as well. She looked up at Jimmy. His puzzled expression disappeared, and he smiled in encouragement. She smiled too.

"Got somethin' to say," he read. "What is it?"

"Marriage'd be Hell, Jimmy," she announced without emotion.

"Why?" he demanded abruptly, but recollecting himself, stopped. Dimly, he once more realized that Erna was a woman. And the man's psychology assisted him: Nature and his long enduring exasperation had been satisfied. Why worry his head trying to understand Erna? Let her take care of herself. She would outgrow her present mood. He grew blasé, and repeated quietly: "Why?"