And then one afternoon, when she could scarcely endure the strain longer—her father demanding: “What is the matter with you, anyhow? Do you know what you’re doing half the time? Is there anything wrong between you and that beau of yours? I see he doesn’t come around any more. It is time that you either married or had nothing more to do with him, anyway. I don’t want any silly nonsense between you and him, you know.” And this effected the very decision which she had most dreaded. Now ... now ... she must act. This evening—at least she must see him again and tell him that she was going to see his father and reveal all—furthermore, that if he did not marry her she would kill him and herself. Show him the gun, maybe, and frighten him with it—if she could—but at any rate make a last plea as well as a threat. If only—if only he would listen this time—not turn on her—become frightened, maybe, and help her,—not curse—or drive her away.
There was the coal-yard of his father that was at the end of an inlet giving into the river. Or his own home. She might go first to the coal office. He would be sure to be leaving there at half past five, or at six he would be nearing his home. At seven or half past departing from that again very likely to see—to see—whom? But best—best to go to the coal office first. He would be coming from there alone. It would be the quickest.
And Hauptwanger coming out of the coal office on this particular evening in the mood and with the air of one with whom all was well. But in the windy dusk of this November evening, arc lights blazing in the distance, the sound of distant cars, distant life, the wind whipping crisp leaves along the ground—the figure of a girl—a familiar cape about her shoulders, suddenly emerging from behind a pile of brick he was accustomed to pass.
“Ed! I want to talk to you a minute.”
“You again! What the hell did I tell you? I ain’t got no time to talk to you, and I won’t! What did I....”
“Now listen, Ed, stop that, now! I’m desperate. I’m desperate, Ed, do you hear? Can’t you see?” Her voice was staccato—almost shrill and yet mournful, too. “I’ve come to tell you that you’ve got to marry me now. You’ve got to—do you hear?” She was fumbling at her breast where lay that heavy blue thing—no longer so cold as when she had placed it there. The handle was upward. She must draw it now—show it—or hold it under her cloak ready so that at the right moment she could show it—and make him understand that unless he did something.... But her hand shaking so that she could scarcely hold it. It was so heavy—so terrible. She could scarcely hear herself adding: “Otherwise, I’m going to your father and mine, now. My father may do something terrible to me but he’ll do more to you. And so will your father when he knows.... But, anyway....” She was about to add: “You’ve got to marry me, and right away too, or, or, I’m going to kill you and myself, that’s all—” and then to produce the revolver, and wave it before him in a threatening dramatic manner.
But before that the uncalculated and non-understanding fury of Hauptwanger. “Well, of all the nerve! Say, cut this out, will ya? Who do you think you are? What did I tell you? Go to my father, if you want to. Go to yours! Who’s afraid? Do you think they’re going to believe a —— like you? I never had anything to do with you, and that’s that!” And then in his anger giving her a push—as much to overawe her as anything.
But then, in spite of her desire not to give way, fury, blindness, pain,—whirling, fiery sparks, such as never in all her life before had she seen—and executing strange, rhythmic, convoluting orbits in her brain—swift, eccentric, red and yet beautiful orbits. And in the center of them the face of Hauptwanger—her beloved—but not as it was now—oh, no—but rather haloed by a strange white light—as it was under the trees in the spring. And herself turning, and in spite of the push, jumping before him.
“You will marry me, Ed, you will! You will! You see this? You will marry me!”
And then, as much to her astonishment as to his—yet with no particular terror to either of them—the thing spitting flame—making a loud noise—jumping almost out of her hand—so much so that before she could turn it away again there was another report—another flash of red in the dusk. And then Hauptwanger, too astonished quite for words at the moment, exclaiming: “Jesus! What are you....” And then, because of a sharp pain in his chest, putting his hand there and adding: “Oh, Christ! I’m shot!” and falling forward to one side of her....