Part 5

"I dunno," she explained doubtfully. "Just because, I suppose."

He sat down beside her, not so much to help her wrestle with the problem as to encourage her to speak. She was thoughtful. "I guess I don't want to," she continued, but with increasing doubt.

"You don't want to marry? Why?"

"I wouldn't be free," she declared in an uncertain way.

"Why not?" he demanded. "You'd be free? You could do what you want. I wouldn't stop you?"

She shook her head.

An idea came to him. "Maybe you'd rather--" but he stopped, remembering a former experience.

"Go ahead," she advised him.

"You'll get sore again," he protested.

"No, I won't," she disagreed, but anticipated him with: "I know what you were goin' to say."

"You do? Well?"

Erna averted her glance. The old thoughts passed in quick review: Landsmann's--Mr. Nielsen's advice--scraps of the past--home. She could live with him a little while and then marry him if all went well. That seemed best for her.

"Wait'll to-morrow!" he interrupted her. "You're kind o' up in the air now. You'll be surer to-morrow."

She nodded absent-mindedly.

"You'll let me know to-morrow?"

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"All right! Forget it! We'll get it all settled to-morrow. An' if you'd still want to have the minister--"

She shook her head negatively. Jimmy appeared just as well satisfied. He did not understand, but what was the difference, and what the use of worrying? "You love me, don'tcher?"

Again, she nodded absent-mindedly. He pushed her with rough good nature. Presently, he got up, returned to the mirror and again busied himself with his tie. Erna likewise continued dressing. She had reached a decision. And she was cheerful once more. But she would wait until to-morrow. It might be better.

X

Mollie and Gretchen, the Landsmann waitresses, were gossipping. It was about eight o'clock, the next morning. Above the rattle of dishes in the kitchen, this is what one might have overheard:

"Yes, I saw her with him."

"So did I a few nights ago."

"They must go out every night."

"Of course! She's out every night since he's back. Who else would she go with?"

"It's just like her."

"Yes! I always said she'd go back to 'im."

"It was _me_ said that."

"Maybe you did, but I said it first. She's a fine girl to be workin' in an honest place like this to be goin' out with a common prize-fighter."

"Not to have any more self-respect!"

"Yes! I always said she'd come to a bad end."

"Looks that way!"

Their gossipping might have continued indefinitely had not part of it been heard by an eavesdropper. She came stealthily into the kitchen and of a sudden, the waitresses received some resounding slaps. The pair screamed.

Erna called them one or two unquotable names and tried to continue her attack. But she saw Landsmann coming into the kitchen and beat a retreat into the dining room, although not without this parting shot: "So you're the kind I've been givin' dresses to!"

Herr Landsmann was a busy man. Both waitresses were trying to explain at the same time. And Mollie was weeping violently. At length, he succeeded in holding an excited consultation with the girls, and with him at their head, they marched out into the store in ragged single file. The trio hurriedly argued the case before Mrs. Landsmann, who was standing behind the counter, guarding the cash register. Pretty soon, Mollie cried: "Here he comes now!"

Jimmy Allen entered. He greeted the Landsmanns and the waitresses and then some of his friends, as he passed the store tables. "How about Young Walcott?" called one. "Next Wednesday," Jimmy returned. "Trainin' again?" "Yes, I start to-day." And the young hero penetrated the kitchen and stepped down into the dining room.

Erna was in a disordered state. Some of the customers were endeavoring to pacify her, but she refused their offers. She spied Jimmy and throwing down all caution, hurried over to him. He soon heard enough details.

The young man struck a melodramatic pose. "We'll clear out o' this hole," he exclaimed. She put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. "Go up-stairs an' pack your things!"

"But Jimmy--"

"Never mind!" he interrupted. "You don't have to stay here. If you did, it'd be different. Go up-stairs an' pack up!"

She looked at him with momentary dread, but Jimmy waved his hand toward the doorway. Two of the customers got up to interfere, but he gave them threatening glances. Erna moved away and then stopped in uncertainty. "Go ahead!" he ordered her. She tried to go, but Landsmann stood in the doorway. His face was struggling between anger and dignity.

"Erna!" he commanded.

She stared at him.

"Go right up-stairs and--"

The storekeeper noticed Jimmy's threatening attitude and hesitated. "Go on!" that individual encouraged him. "Got any more to say?"

Evidently, the German had not.

"Then get 'er money ready an' see there ain't a cent short, you lousy Dutchman! I'll see she gets her deserts. Hurry up, you fat slob, or I'll help you!"

Herr Landsmann disappeared and so did Erna. Jimmy, master of the moment, gave the dining room denizens a look of contemptuous pride and likewise went out.

Consternation prevailed. Each patron wanted to express an opinion, and argument rose high. Only one of them held his peace: John Carstairs. He sat aloof, a picture of gloom and stupor.

* * * * *

It was an early hour that evening. Carstairs was seated at the piano in his small cosy room. The gas was turned fairly low. Except for intermittent sounds from the instrument, the room was quiet.

The young man was composing. Vague measures, desolate of all cheer, followed one another in funeral tempo. The monotony, unbroken by even one note of prophecying gladness, was maddening. But the young man persisted in his lugubrious incantation. Presently, he got up, turned the gas a little higher and sat down again. A sheet of music paper lay in front of him. Only a few measures and the title--Dirge--had been transcribed. He started jotting down more notes.

There was a knock at the door. He did not hear it. The knock was repeated. Carstairs struck a petulant dissonance, arose wearily, went over to the door and opened it part way.

"Special delivery!" a man announced.

Carstairs signed the slip, the postman went away and the door was closed. The young composer examined the handwriting and quickly tore open the envelope. The note was very short.

He gave way to eager joy. And he breathed a name twice over: "Elsie!" Nervous animation betrayed him further. He re-read the note five or six times, looked about in bewilderment and re-read the note again. Of a sudden, he hurried over to the bureau and pulled open the bottom drawer. A litter of odds and ends was laid bare. With anxious haste, he threw them all about on the floor. At last, he came to a picture: the photograph of a pretty girl. His joy deepened; he held the picture at arm's length and gazed a fill of delight. He then arighted himself, went over to the piano, moved the photograph of an older woman to one side and placed this picture near the centre. He was soon occupied studying the effect, and ultimate satisfaction was his.

He again sat down at the piano, but was unable to take his glance from the picture. Eventually, he smiled, gave the picture an _au revoir_ look and again turned his attention to the keyboard and manuscript. He had decided to finish his composition just the same. The dirge continued intoning its gloomy measures, but a note of prophecying gladness appeared. From time to time, too, the composer stole shy glances at the photograph.

* * * * *

In a cosy room in a building not far away, a different scene was taking place. Eric Nielsen and Erna Vitek were sitting close together on a couch, chatting confidentially and bantering each other.

Erna had not broken off her appointment with the young writer even though a sudden change had come into her life. Luckily, Jimmy was away all afternoon, training up in Fordham, and, thanks to his continued absence, she was able to leave their flat shortly after six o'clock. She would only stay out an hour or so and, should he return before her, would tell him that she had to visit Landsmann's for some small articles she had left behind. On the way to Nielsen's, she bought two or three trifles. Fortunately, she had found him at home, although she was two hours beforehand.

He had heard of the morning's event and was heartily sorry. But Erna quickly reassured him. Of course, he did not believe the hazy part of her story,--that she was "stayin' with some friends"--but his philosophy was equal to the occasion: what Erna hid from him was no concern of his. In all, they had been spending a delightful evening. As a consequence, Erna was staying much longer than she had planned.

Nielsen enjoyed her company. She was a splendid stimulant to his stimulant-craving mental system. After his recent intercourse with the every-day woman and the every-day man,--a monotonous gallery of drab souls--she was a touch of brilliant color. Her joy, animal spirit and fighting instinct enthralled him. She stimulated his imagination particularly and consequently brought him back to his old interest in his life and work. So he was trebly indebted to her.

Erna's greed had developed rapidly, and she had grown reckless in short order. Nielsen inspired her complete confidence. He did not take her too seriously, neither did he take her too lightly. This was just what she had craved so long. As a result, at the height of her confidence and his bantering comment, she allowed him to sit next to her, and they developed their further intimacy. For the present, she had forgotten Jimmy. He was physical and did not inspire her as Nielsen's human temperament did so easily and so quietly. Moreover, her Vitek blood had been excited.

Therefore, it was inside a natural sequence of happenings that Nielsen's arm stole about Erna's waist and that she submitted to the liberty. To tell the truth, Nielsen was decidedly under the influence of the wine in her nature and she under that in his.

"Isn't this wicked?" he questioned pleasantly.

"No," she denied.

"But it's growing darker," he protested.

"So much the better!" she retorted.

And they both laughed.

"This is rat time," he warned her.

"I don't care," she vaunted.

And they laughed again.

Erna did not leave the Nielsen workshop until well after nine o'clock.

XI

It was the following Monday noon. Breen and Nielsen were seated at the last table in Landsmann's rear dining room, eating and gossipping. "Gretchen!" called the former.

Erna's successor came forward.

"Bring me a mocha tart, please."

"Yes, sir"--and the girl walked away.

"So you think you'll be able to finish your story?" Breen questioned.

"I think so," was Nielsen's thoughtful response. "I've found the missing link."

"But is any story ever finished?" Breen protested. "Can't you always find room for additional installments?"

Not being in an argumentative mood, Nielsen quietly accepted his friend's criticism. Soon, they were both meditative. Gretchen brought the mocha tart and went away. Hers was a peace-loving temperament, in distinct contrast to Erna's, an opinion Breen expressed. Nielsen again accepted his criticism.

"After all," the artist added comfortably: "Erna was quite a study. I confess, she fooled me."

"How so?"

"By running off with that young gladiator."

"Then you think she's living with him?"

"Of course. What other conclusion should I come to?"

Nielsen did not answer. At length he said: "Then you're ready to alter your decision of the other day?"

"That she's a moral little thing?" Breen replied.

"Yes, to some extent," he declared generously. "Her last act does change my first consideration a bit. But I still refuse to credit her with being _un_moral."

"Which means that you believe her _im_moral?" Nielsen ventured in a droll tone.

"I suppose so."

"Explain yourself!"

"She's accepted a life contrary to Society's code or her own code--if she was ever unconventional enough to have one, which I doubt."

Nielsen smiled. "If what you say is true, we're all of us more or less immoral."

"Why so?"

"Because every one barters his soul some time during his existence, and some of us are doing so all the time. At heart, you know, we're most of us, unmoral, in appearance, moral, but in action, immoral."

Breen laughed in amiable derision. "What scrambled egg philosophy!" he cried. "Where did you learn it, noble scholar?"

"Nowhere," Nielsen answered and frowned. But his ready good nature intervened and he observed gently: "At any rate, Breen, I disagree with you regarding Erna."

"That she's neither moral nor immoral?"

"She has a little bit of each--like all of us," the young author agreed; "but fundamentally she's unmoral."

"Bravo! So that will be the end of your story?"

"I don't know," Nielsen silenced him and smiled a second time.

Breen shook his head with a knowing air. After an interval, he requested: "Will you see her again?"

"I'm not certain," Nielsen said without emotion. "I imagine I will some time. But it won't be necessary."

The young men finished their meal.

A little later, Nielsen was alone in his studio. He was sitting at his small writing desk, looking over some material that lay in front of him. Presently, he seemed worried, but only for a moment. No, the point was absolutely clear. Erna had settled it for him the other evening. At heart, she was unmoral. The young author commenced writing.

Through some insidious channel, a thought managed to come between his mind and the manuscript: would he see her again? Quickly, he beat it down: it would be unnecessary to see her again; there was nothing more for him to learn. Still, he had enjoyed himself the other evening. The physical, so glorious, so great, had once more penetrated his life. Would he drive it away? Nielsen stopped writing.

Almost resentfully, he mused: What had he and the physical to do with each other? The physical gave him new experience, yes, but it was almost always experience that he courted and utilized for his work. He must not expect more; he must continue to sacrifice everything--thought, emotion, volition--to work. Nothing else existed; in no other way could he hope to reach the realm of artist. He must drive Erna and the other evening's sensations from his memory. She had served as his model, no more; so he must not permit her personality or his own to interfere again. Furthermore, he must be cautious on her behalf as well. She was a joyous, healthy animal. Jimmy Allen was a joyous, healthy animal. They were mated, and were living together, undoubtedly. The chapter was closed. He must not desire more.

Nielsen tightened his resolve. In another moment, he was again busy, writing.

There was a knock at the door. He did not hear it. The knock was repeated more loudly. He looked around petulantly, got up, went over to the door and opened it. "Oh, it's you," he said, but not with cordiality.

Erna came in.

"I was down in the neighborhood," she apologized.

"You were right to come up," he reassured her, sorry to have treated her discourteously. "Take off your things!"

"But you're busy," she protested.

"Not at all. Only a little touch or two I was working on. They can wait."

Reluctantly, Erna permitted him to help her remove her coat. She did not take off her hat. "Sit down," he advised her, his regret for his momentary show of self-interest developing.

She sat down on a chair. He seated himself at his desk, but faced her. "What's new?" he asked pleasantly.

"Nothin' much," she returned and glanced at him.

His glance met hers, and he quickly looked elsewhere. He felt a sharp pain: he had gone too far the other evening. Erna likewise looked away. She had seen enough; her instinct knew. There was an awkward pause.

Nielsen gave her a sidelong glance. What could he do? This was dreadful. He should not have gone so far. Erna was staring at the floor. He could see her pugnacious nose and her determined mouth and chin, and felt somewhat relieved. Her case might not be as serious as he feared. She had tenacious strength of character. But the situation was very uncomfortable notwithstanding. He should not have gone so far. It was selfish--whether a man's selfishness or an artist's. Nielsen turned away.

Again, he glanced in her direction, but she was still staring at the floor. Luckily, she had Jimmy; they were living together--at least, he had taken that much for granted by putting her story and the bakery scandal side by side. They were suited to each other. What could or should she have to do with such a thing as an artist? Perhaps, the novelty in their short affair had appealed to her. She was a greedy nature. She craved everything: sun, moon, stars and all. He himself had only been one of them. This conjecture satisfied him considerably. And he breathed with returning freedom.

She looked up. He smiled. She smiled too. And he breathed still more freely.

"What have you been doing lately?" he questioned cheerfully.

"I've been busy straightenin' out," she replied, and looked at him.

He moved restlessly. There was a second pause, but only a short one.

"You've been busy too," she said.

"Oh yes, I--I've been working on a story."

"What kind of a story?"

"Merely a foolish little affair about a foolish little affair," he hastened to condemn.

Her glance dropped. His work and her own lived apart. "I brought back 'Little Eyolf'."

"So I saw. Did you like it?"

"Not very much."

"Why not?"

"It's too sad," she explained. "An' I don't like cripples."

"Of course!" he broke out. "I forgot that you love only joy and happy people."

"An' freedom," she concluded unconsciously.

"Certainly, and freedom," he agreed.

He caught a glimpse of her eyes--eyes that could love you to-day and hate you to-morrow--and felt still more reconciled with circumstances. Erna craved freedom, and was free. She could take care of herself. She possessed that rare thing, the life-controlling temperament. Perhaps, she would not need even Jimmy Allen. How splendid she was! Would she hate him to-morrow? It would be a shame. He had only to raise his hand--and they could continue. But he must not, it would be so much better for her. She would be miserable with him: an artist and not a physical man. She belonged to Jimmy--and still more, to herself. He must not interfere, but leave her destiny to destiny. Nielsen felt almost completely relieved.

"You _love_ your work, don't you?" Erna announced with unexpected candor.

Nielsen looked at her with sharpened eyes. She was glorious. She had emphasized "love" and not "work." He could scarcely reply.

"Don't you?" she repeated.

She was more than glorious. Her own gameness had fought the problem for her. She required assistance from no one.

"Yes," was all he was able to say, his emotions crowding him.

"Do you write a whole lot?"

"Yes, lots and lots, but it's all trivial."

"Oh no!" she contradicted him.

"Oh yes!" he mimicked her, and laughed, although he did not know why. "My writings are as much like life--" as you are like art, he would have finished, but hesitated.

"As what?" she assisted him.

"As the catching of butterflies is like the catching of rats," he closed with a return to himself.

"Oh, the Rat-wife!" she interpreted.

"Yes."

"You're not a rat-wife writer then?"

"No."

"You're not a butterfly writer either?"

"Why not?"

"'Cause butterflies come from caterpillars, don't they?"

"Yes," Nielsen admitted and laughed again, although his emotions were threatening him, as before. "I forgot about the caterpillars."

"Yes, I hate 'em," she reminded him. "They're too--too--"

"Fuzzy wuzzy!" he helped her.

"Yes," she accepted and laughed for the first time, if not very heartily.

Nielsen studied her with frank admiration. Her nature was that of a lioness. She looked capable of pushing over or slipping from under any circumstance. She did not even require one's sympathy. And still?--But he resisted the temptation. For her sake, it would be better not to continue.

"I must be goin'," she said suddenly.

"Oh no, not yet!" he begged.

"Yes, I must be goin'," she insisted and got up. "I got shoppin' to do."

"Haven't you finished decorating?" he inquired, and got up against his will.

"No," she returned and smiled.

Nielsen helped her with her coat. He was tempted to put his arms about her, but resisted. It would make her departure more difficult. She turned around. "Is my hat on straight?"

"Oh yes," he assured her and added, by way of controlling himself: "_Vanitas vanitatum!_"

"What's that?"

"More triviality!" he declared.

Erna started toward the door, but he stopped her with: "Don't you want another book to read?"

The temptation was a strong one, but she dodged it: "No, I'll be too busy now. Maybe, later on," she concluded with a lingering tone.

Nielsen looked away. Erna continued toward the door, but he hurried after her and opened and held it open for her.

"Good-bye," she said.

"Oh no, not good-bye, but _au revoir_!" he quoted gently.

"That's a hard word to pronounce."

"Try it anyhow," he encouraged her.

"Orrevore!"

"Fine!" he congratulated her, repeated the phrase, and added: "Come in again soon."

"Yes," she agreed.

But she never did.

XII

Two months passed.

Erna Vitek was still living with Jimmy Allen. There was, however, less and less likelihood that they would ever marry. In fact, the most probable issue to their affair was that they would separate again, in the near future and this time for good.

Erna was tired of Jimmy. For some weeks past, her restless nature had been craving some one else, or better still, some other mode of living, her present one having reached a state of unbearable monotony. She recovered from her experience with Eric Nielsen only after several weeks of struggle. Even such a fine tonic as that supplied her so freely by her resource of blood found the healing of her wound no ordinary matter, but she had recovered, except for an occasional memory. Her battle with her craving for Nielsen did not assist her attachment for Jimmy; on the contrary, the latter degenerated by contrast. And Jimmy, himself, was very much to blame as well. He had changed toward her.

It is no doubt true that possession often breeds boredom, and boredom, carelessness. Erna, before possession and after possession, was not the same individual, and Jimmy treated her accordingly. He was no longer an anxious desire-maddened suitor.

Furthermore, he was softening physically. He continued training for his schedule of fistic contests and carried out that schedule; he defeated Young Walcott, the man from Chicago and another, but lately, had fought two very poor draws, in the latter of which he, himself, was on the point of being knocked out. His manager, the astute Jerry Nolan, was losing patience with him. He bluntly attributed his protégé's decline to the fact that he was "livin' with a woman. A man's got to cut out drink if he wants to succeed as a athlete, but he's got to be _sure_ to cut out women. They sucks his blood an' strength."