The next day Mr. Feuerstein returned from exile. It is always disillusioning to inspect the unheroic details of the life of that favorite figure with romancers--the soldier of fortune. Of Mr. Feuerstein's six weeks in Hoboken it is enough to say that they were weeks of storm and stress-- wretched lodgments in low boarding- houses, odd jobs at giving recitations in beer halls, undignified ejectments for drunkenness and failure to pay, borrowings which were removed from frank street-begging only in his imagination. He sank very low indeed, but it must be recorded to the credit of his consistency that he never even contemplated the idea of working for a living. And now here he was, back in New York, with Hoboken an exhausted field, with no resources, no hopes, no future that his brandy-soaked brain could discern.
His mane was still golden and bushy; but it was ragged and too long in front of the ears and also on his neck. His face still expressed insolence and vanity; but it had a certain tragic bitterness, as if it were trying to portray the emotions of a lofty spirit flinging defiance at destiny from a slough of despair. It was plain that he had been drinking heavily--the whites of his eyes were yellow and bloodshot, the muscles of his eyelids and mouth twitched disagreeably. His romantic hat and collar and graceful suit could endure with good countenance only the most casual glance of the eye.
Mr. Feuerstein had come to New York to perform a carefully-planned last act in his life-drama, one that would send the curtain down amid tears and plaudits for Mr. Feuerstein, the central figure, enwrapped in a somber and baleful blaze of glory.
He had arranged everything except such details as must be left to the inspiration of the moment. He was impatient for the curtain to rise--besides, he had empty pockets and might be prevented from his climax by a vulgar arrest for vagrancy.
At one o'clock Hilda was in her father's shop alone. The rest of the family were at the midday dinner. As she bent over the counter, near the door, she was filling a sheet of wrapping paper with figures--calculations in connection with the new business.
A shadow fell across her paper and she looked up. She shrank and clasped her hands tightly against her bosom. ``Mr. Feuerstein!'' she exclaimed in a low, agitated voice.
He stood silent, his face ghastly as if he were very ill. His eyes, sunk deep in blue-black sockets, burned into hers with an intensity that terrified her. She began slowly to retreat.
``Do not fly from me,'' he said in a hollow voice, leaning against the counter weakly. ``I have come only for a moment.
Then--you will see me never again!''
She paused and watched him. His expression, his tone, his words filled her with pity for him.
``You hate me,'' he went on. ``You abhor me. It is just--just!
Yet''--he looked at her with passionate sadness--``it was because I loved you that I deceived you. Because--I--loved you!''
``You must go away,'' said Hilda, pleading rather than commanding. ``You've done me enough harm.''
``I shall harm you no more.'' He drew himself up in gloomy majesty. ``I have finished my life. I am bowing my farewell.
Another instant, and I shall vanish into the everlasting night.''
``That would be cowardly!'' exclaimed Hilda. She was profoundly moved. ``You have plenty to live for.''
``Do you forgive me, Hilda?'' He gave her one of his looks of tragic eloquence.
``Yes--I forgive you.''
He misunderstood the gentleness of her voice. ``She loves me still!'' he said to himself. ``We shall die together and our names will echo down the ages.'' He looked burningly at her and said: ``I was mad--mad with love for you. And when I realized that I had lost you, I went down, down, down. God! What have I not suffered for your sake, Hilda!'' As he talked he convinced himself, pictured himself to himself as having been drawn on by a passion such as had ruined many others of the great of earth.
``That's all past now.'' She spoke impatiently, irritated against herself because she was not hating him. ``I don't care to hear any more of that kind of talk.''
A customer came in, and while Hilda was busy Mr. Feuerstein went to the rear counter. On a chopping block lay a knife with a long, thin blade, ground to a fine edge and a sharp point. He began to play with it, and presently, with a sly, almost insane glance to assure himself that she was not seeing, slipped it into the right outside pocket of his coat. The customer left and he returned to the front of the shop and stood with just the breadth of the end of the narrow counter between him and her.
``It's all over for me,'' he began. ``Your love has failed me.
