Yet, at last, after many, many perfect hours throughout July and August, the fatal complaint. There was something wrong, she feared. She had such strange moods—such strange spells, pains, fears—recently. Could there be? Did he think there could be any danger? She had done what he said. Oh, if there was! What was she to do then? Would he marry her? He must, really, then. There was no other way. Her father—his fierce anger. Her own terrors. She could not live at home any more. Could they not—would they not—be married now if anything were wrong? He had said he would if anything like this ever happened, had he not?
And Hauptwanger, in the face of this, suffering a nervous and cold reaction. Marriage! The mere thought of such a thing! Impossible! His father! His hitherto free roving life! His future! Besides, how did she know? How could she be sure? And supposing she was! Other girls got out of such things without much trouble. Why not she? And had he not taken all the usual customary and necessary precautions that he knew! She was too easily frightened—too uninformed—not daring enough. He knew of lots of cases where girls got through situations of this kind with ease. He would see about something first.
But conjoined with this, as she herself could see and feel, a sudden definite coolness never before sensed or witnessed by her, which was based on his firm determination not to pursue this threatening relationship any longer, seeing that to do so meant only to emphasize responsibility. And in addition, a keen desire to stay away. Were there not other girls? A whole world full. And only recently had he not been intrigued by one who was more aware of the free, smart ways of pleasure and not so likely ever to prove a burden?
But on the other hand, in the face of a father as strict as Zobel himself and a mother who believed in his goodness, his course was not absolutely clear either. And so from this hour on an attempt to extricate himself as speedily and as gracefully as possible from this threatening position. But before this a serious, if irritated, effort on his part to find a remedy among his friends of the boating club and street corners. But with the result merely of a vivid advertisement of the fact that this gay and successful adventure of his had now resulted most unsuccessfully for Ida. And thereafter hints and nods and nudges among themselves whenever she chanced to pass. And Ida, because of fear of scandal, staying in as much as she could these days, or when she did appear trying to avoid Warren Avenue at High as much as possible. For by now she was truly terrified, seized indeed with the most weakening emotions based on the stern and unrelenting countenance of her father which loomed so threateningly beyond the immediate future. “If me no ifs,” and “but me no buts.” Oh, how to do? For throughout the trial of this useless remedy, there had been nothing to do but wait. And the waiting ended in nothing—only greater horrors. And between all this, and enforced work at the store and enforced duties at home, efforts to see her beloved—who, because of new and more urgent duties, was finding it harder and harder to meet her anywhere or at any time.
“But you must see how it is with me, don’t you, dear? I can’t go on like this, can’t you see that? You said you’d marry me, didn’t you? And look at all the time that’s gone already. Oh, I’m almost mad. You must do something. You must! You must! If father should find out, what in the world would I do? What would he do to me, and to you, too? Can’t you see how bad it is?”
Yet in the face of this tortured plea on the part of this frantic and still love-sick girl, a calm on the part of Hauptwanger that expressed not indifference but cruelty. She be damned! He would not. He could not. He must save himself now at whatever cost. And so a determined attempt not to see her any more at all—never to speak to her openly anywhere—or to admit any responsibility as to all this. Yet, because of her inexperience, youth and faith thus far, no willingness on her part to believe this. It could not be. She had not even so much as sensed it before. Yet his continuing indifference which could only be interpreted one way. The absences—the excuses! And then one day, when pains and terror seized on her and thereby drove her to him, he looking her calmly and brazenly in the eye and announcing: “But I didn’t really promise to marry you, and you know I didn’t. Besides, I’m not to blame any more than you are. You don’t suppose that just because you don’t know how to take care of yourself I’ve got to marry you now, do you?”
His eyes now for the first time were truly hard. His intention to end this by one fell blow was very definite. And the blow was sufficient at the moment to half unseat the romantic and all but febrile reason of this girl, who up to this hour had believed so foolishly in love. Why, how could this be? The horror of it! The implied disaster. And then half in understanding, half in befuddled unreason, exclaiming: “But, Ed! Ed! You can’t mean that. Why, it isn’t true! You know it isn’t! You promised. You swore. You know I never wanted to—until you made me. Why ... oh, what’ll I do now? My father! I don’t know what he’ll do to me or to you either. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” And frantically, and without sufficient balance to warrant the name of reason, beginning to wring her hands and twist and sway in a kind of physical as well as mental agony.
At this Hauptwanger, more determined than ever to frighten her away from him once and for all, if possible, exclaiming: “Oh, cut that stuff! I never said I’d marry you, and you know it!” and turning on his heel and leaving her to rejoin the chattering group of youths on the corner, with whom, before her arrival, he had been talking. And as much to sustain himself in this fatal decision as well as to carry it off before them all, adding: “Gee, these skirts! It does beat hell, don’t it?”
Yet now a little fearsome, if vain and contemptuous, for the situation was beginning to take on a gloomy look. But just the same when Johnny Martin, one of his companions and another aspirant for street corner and Lothario honors, remarked: “I saw her here last night lookin’ for you, Ed. Better look out. One of these skirts is likely to do somepin to you one of these days”—he calmly extracted a cigarette from a silver cigarette case and without a look in the direction of the half-swooning Ida, said: “Is that so? Well, maybe. We’ll see first.” And then with a nonchalant nod in the direction of Ida, who, too tortured to even retreat, was standing quite still, exclaimed: “Gee, these Germans! She’s got an old man that wouldn’t ever let her find out anything and now because she thinks there’s something wrong with her she blames me.” And just then, another intimate approaching, and with news of two girls who were to meet them somewhere later, exclaiming: “Hello, Skate! Everything set? All right, then. We might as well go along. S’long, fellas.” And stepping briskly and vigorously away.
But the stricken and shaken Ida still loitered under the already partially denuded September trees. And with the speeding street and auto cars with their horns and bells and the chattering voices and shuffling feet of pedestrians and the blazing evening lights making a kind of fanfare of color and sound. Was it cold? Or was it only herself who was numb and cold? He would not marry her! He had never said he would! How could he say that now? And her father to deal with—and her physical condition to be considered!