CHAPTER X

And so the days flew by bringing little change, excepting that Marie was left more and more to herself as Von Pfaffen's work seemed to accumulate.

She seldom touched the piano when he was near, for although she played well, she lacked the roundness of touch, the depth of tone which pleased his fastidious ear. But during the long hours when he was away, her music was a great solace to her.

Her walks never carried her far from the neighborhood, and brought her little amusement. It was a peculiarly quiet, uneventful location, given over, for the most part, to nurses and their charges.

Von Pfaffen was away from the apartment now for longer periods of time. These journeys came at more and more frequent intervals. His manner toward her began to change, he grew brusque and indifferent, the slightest thing irritated him. He would sit for long periods at the littered table, going over his papers in silence. Fearful of annoying him, she would remain quiet, crocheting endless yards of lace or staring into the coals, and when he had finished his work, he would gather it together, put on his hat and coat and leave her without a word.

Once during his absence, she had ventured another glimpse at those papers which so absorbed him, but they seemed to be mostly tracings of curious lines, columns of cryptic numbers and telegrams in what appeared to be a cypher, and she soon lost all interest as to what might be their import.

Toward spring, old Lena walked in one morning, her pendulous nose red from the brisk winds, her ample form swathed in the enveloping folds of an ancient shawl.

"So you're still here, Fräulein?" was her ungracious greeting, and Marie, who had welcomed her with a smile, was chilled.

"Of course, I'm still here, Lena," she answered, as the old woman laid aside her wraps. "I'm to stay here. The Herr Captain and I are to be married soon."

The old woman looked at her curiously from between her reddish eyelids.

"So," she grunted, "that's what he told you. Well, it's not for me to say," and she ran an inquisitive forefinger along the ledge of the mantle in search of dust.

Marie was angry, but it had been so long since she had spoken with anyone besides the Captain, that she welcomed the return of even this unpleasant creature.

"Lena," she began, "you know the Captain so well, you must know that he always does what he says he will do. Won't you be a little kind to me? I'm a very lonely girl."

The old woman smoothed her scanty hair, which she wore according to an ancient fashion, banded down on either side of her face and rolled under her ears into a hard little knot behind.

"Well, Fräulein," she said grudgingly, "you may be different from the 'others,' I don't know," and that was all the conversation Marie could get from her for the rest of the day, although she followed the old woman about the little apartment as she grumblingly set things back in the order in which she was accustomed to having them, out of which Marie had changed them.

The girl tried to talk to Von Pfaffen that night, but it was very late when he came in and his mood was such as to discourage any effort to continue the conversation, and so she lay awake almost till dawn, worrying. She had been afraid to face this question boldly, even to herself. After his first promises, she believed him because she wanted to believe him, because her peace of mind depended upon it. In the books she had read before she came here, wedding bells always ended the last chapter, journeys always ended in lovers' meeting. But the Captain's books were different. There was that horrible chapter of Dostoieffsky, which she had since read again, and every now and then an unpleasant picture had crossed her mind, of one of the convent girls who had come back weeping to the Mother Superior, and when she allowed herself the memory, she could even now hear the stern voice saying: "My child, you have sinned deeply!"

But Von Pfaffen's kindness, his repeated assurances, at first had shut out all fear of this. Now, however, things looked different, his manner had changed. Old Lena's allusion to those "others," disquieted her.

She thought of the letter that had come back unopened from the Schultzes. She recalled that the address had been crossed out and her own substituted in which she now remembered to resemble Von Pfaffen's handwriting, a fact which had made no impression on her mind at the time.

She lay watching the square of the window grow gray with the morning light. This couldn't come to her, she thought; he had promised. But supposing it were true? What would she do?

She fell asleep at last with the sound of his words in her ears, "Don't you trust me?"

But it was young Franz who added the last straw to her endurance. He came hurrying in one morning several days later to get a portfolio the Captain wanted.

"Good morning, Fräulein," was the young man's greeting as old Lena let him into the living-room, "it's nice and cozy here, I wish I could stay."

Marie pushed one of the big chairs nearer the stove.

"Why not sit down awhile," she smiled.

Usually her manner with him had repelled any advances, but to-day she wanted to talk to some one, anyone, even this flat-faced boy.

Franz (Marie had never learned his last name), sank stiffly into the cushions of the great chair, his hands with their thick fingers spread out on each knee, the toes of his shiny boots turned toward one another, round, pale blue eyes staring fatuously into her face.

"You are very pretty, Fräulein," he began, but Marie interrupted him.

"Don't compliment me, Herr Lieutenant. I want to talk to you if you have a few minutes to spare."

He leaned toward her with a smile that was meant to be ingratiating.

"Indeed yes, Fräulein," he said and cleared his throat. "Indeed yes! My time is at the disposal of so beautiful a young lady."

His manner was such a ludicrous imitation of the suave tones of his chief that Marie almost laughed in his face, but she controlled the impulse and went straight to the heart of her question.

"Tell me, when will all this be finished?" her glance took in not only the littered table, but the yellow portfolio resting at the side of his chair.

"That I do not know, Fräulein. Why do you ask?"

"Because, I am waiting for that, for then the Captain and I are to be married."

The boy threw back his head and laughed.

"Ach, Fräulein, you will have a long, long wait!"

"What makes you say that?" Marie was her own inquisitor now.

"Because," and the boy rose awkwardly, shaking down the tight blue legs of his uniform, "because the Herr Captain's work is never finished."

"Do you mean----?" Marie was on her feet now, the scales were falling fast from her eyes.

He put a clumsy hand on her arm.

"Come Fräulein, you're too pretty to worry," he said. "If the Herr Captain grows too busy, there's always me."

The blood rushed into Marie's face and receded quickly again, leaving her very lips white.

"I think you had better go," she said, and there was that in her manner that made the Lieutenant, after one look into her eyes, turn on his heel and leave the room, closing the door after him with a click.

Marie stood for a long time motionless, unseeing. They were right, Franz and Lena. She had been a fool, but she would give him one more chance. She would put the question to him unfalteringly when he came in. She dragged herself over to the window seat and sat looking down into the square. Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously, her teeth tore at her underlip. She made up her mind she would sit there and watch for him, no matter how long it would be before he came. With dry eyes, she stared down into the deserted street, for even the nurse maids and their charges were absent.

It was one of those windy spring days when the breath of winter still lingers in the air and sends the dust whirling in eddies about the street and around corners. The clouds hung low, and every now and then, a splash of rain moistened the pavement.

Two women were coming toward each other, their skirts blowing against their limbs and outlining them like Greek statues. The one as she came against the wind, held her head low to guard her hat, her white stockings showing above her shoe tops as her skirts ballooned behind her. The other leaned against the gale and almost ran with funny little hurried steps, as the wind pushed her before it, one hand hanging onto her hat, the other trying to steady her flying skirts.

They met, passed, and left the street once more to the wind, the dust eddies and scattered pieces of paper which danced and skittered along the pavement.

Lena came in after awhile to find out if Marie would have some lunch, but the girl paid no heed to her question, and the old woman shuffled out again, crossly.

The fire died down, the burnt coals clicking as they fell through the grate into the graying pile of ashes. The little clock on the mantel struck the hour, the half hour, and again the hour, but Marie sat as she had sat since the Lieutenant left her.

Everything Von Pfaffen had ever said came back to her clearly, stripped of all the glamor, all the fascination, all the hope that had held her these many weeks. She remembered things he had told her that were deliberate lies, lies so cunningly worded that she had never been able quite to accuse him of them. She found herself facing the fact, that almost every statement he had made to her, though made with the positive manner of assurance, and with every semblance of truth, had been utterly false. She was conscious of a great growing anger, a fierce glow of hatred, resentment. Her eyes narrowed, her lips tightened. Once for all, she would know the truth.

Several times the telephone bell shrilled out, but she paid no heed, and then at last a huge chocolate-colored car turned the corner and drew up at the curb. The chauffeur jumped down and threw open the door. Marie flattened her face against the windowpane.

After a second, the Captain stepped onto the pavement and a slender, white-gloved hand in a handsome sable cuff, was held out. He bowed over it, and turning on his heel entered the apartment house. The chauffeur closed the door and with a purr, the car drew away from the curb and went on its way.

Marie waited to hear Von Pfaffen's key in the lock, her heart pounding. No matter what his mood, she must know her fate now. The Lieutenant's laugh and Lena's phrase about the "others" were ringing in her ears.

He came in hurriedly and threw his hat and heavy fur-lined coat on a chair.

"Well, Marie," he said brusquely, "I have only a few seconds. Will you ring for Lena to bring some coffee?"

She came and stood beside him where he sat at the table rummaging among the litter.

"I must speak with you," she said, "there is something I must know."

"I am busy now," he did not raise his eyes from the papers.

"When are we going to be married?"

The Captain let his thin hand rest a moment on the edge of the table.

"Are you worrying about that again?" he asked, looking up at her with a frown. "Haven't I told you as soon as my work is finished?"

"Your work will never be finished!" Marie was echoing the Lieutenant's words in almost the Lieutenant's stolid tone.

Von Pfaffen's face darkened.

"You're nagging again," he said. "I have too much to think about to be bothered about trifles. If you are not satisfied here, I have no doubt the Schultzes will take you in again."

Marie drew in her breath sharply. They were right, and she had believed him. She seized him fiercely by the coat sleeve.

"You lied to me!" she cried. "You lied! You never meant to marry me! You lied to me!" and with all her strength, she shook at his arm as a small terrier might shake at the shaggy coat of a mastiff.

Von Pfaffen turned and held her from him.

"I marry you?" he sneered, "a cabaret singer!"

Marie's mouth was dry, the little pulse in her throat pounded as though it would burst. She drew back her hand and struck Von Pfaffen straight across the face.

He rose to his feet with an oath, his cheek a dull red, excepting where the mark of her blow showed livid.

"You little devil," he said between his teeth. "What do you think you could ever be in the life of a man like me? You want the truth? Well, I'll give it to you. You amused me, filled in long hours, when my nerves were ready to snap. Did you think for a second that a woman like you could hold me? I thought even you had more brains than really to believe that! I've given you comfort, I've taken care of you, I've given you much more than--if I must speak plainly--you have really been worth. There are things of so much more moment in my life that even this explanation is taking valuable time; but I've this to thank you for, you have helped me tell you what I've been meaning to, that as soon as you care to, you are at liberty to go!"

He turned away from the flood of tears he expected to follow his words, but the girl only stood staring at him, terrified.

Her mind was waking slowly to another phase of the world of which she had never dreamed. Unconsciously, the flower of her life was opening, developing, and the development was agony. She had learned grief with the loss of her father, poverty and the struggle for existence in that bitter year, and now this!

She turned with a dry sob and stumbled into her room, shutting and locking the door after her. She must think. She must reason out what to do. Shame, horrible, scourging shame, swept over her. She threw herself in a shuddering heap across the counterpane of her bed.

Spent with the grief and anguish that had followed her awakening, she lay for a long while dully repeating over and over the phrase, "he lied to me!" Presently this gave place to resentment, bitter hatred, which dried her tears. Her mind was swept of all illusions, she saw things clearly as they were. Once more she faced a crisis, and swiftly she made her decision as to what course she must follow. She sat up listening for the sounds that would tell of Von Pfaffen's departure.

She heard him rattle the poker among the dead coals, then old Lena shuffle in and set down the coffee tray, his rough dismissal of her and the old woman's angry grunt. The telephone rang and she heard the click of china, as he hastily set down his cup and went to answer it. She heard him say, "yes, immediately, I'll take a cab, good-bye," and her imagination followed him as he hung up the receiver and shrugged himself into his great coat, and with the sound of the closing door, she jumped to her feet.

Hastily she rummaged in her bureau drawer. There were two or three bank notes and some gold, besides some small change, housekeeping money. These she stuffed into her purse, they would stand between her and starvation for a little while at least. She took her suit and hat from the clothes press, and slipping off her blue gown, let it lie on the floor where it fell. She kicked off the little satin bedroom slippers and pulled on her shoes.

Once in her clothes, she brought out her small leather traveling case, and regardless of neatness or precision, she tumbled in the necessary things. She hesitated over the few jewels Von Pfaffen had given her, with the thought that they might aid her in escaping. She decided, however, to leave them and placed them where they could easily be seen on her dressing-table. Then, carefully, she locked and strapped the bag.

Her hat was pinned securely, she fastened the collar of her coat, and with a last look about, she picked up her bag and left the house. But it was not until she felt the cold air of the outside world whipping against her cheeks, that she realized that she had nowhere to go.