Mr. Chidden surrendered before the gleam of her eye. Fool that he had been, ever to have imagined he could conquer that steely glance! He picked up the hat, walked slowly to the hall, opened the door, and descended the steps to the street.
There he paused, undecided which way to turn. Certainly he did not want to walk to the river. The thing he would have liked most to do was to fight someone, pull his hair, kick him, punch his face; but that, he acknowledged to himself, was an impractical desire. He was a small man physically. He pulled the hat over his head, sighed heavily, and turned down the street to the right.
He walked slowly, aimlessly, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his shoulders stooped in dejection.
“Domineerin’ despot!” he muttered aloud. “A man as is a man wouldn’t stand it. Bob Chidden, you’re a sexual disgrace.”
These and other sundry self-accusations occupied his thoughts till he had nearly reached the end of the block. Suddenly he stopped and turned. Before him was a window bearing the inscription:
For a minute Mr. Chidden stood and stared at the window, while his face gradually lost its gloom and became luminous with the brilliance of an idea. He took his hands from his pockets, removed the brown slouch hat, and pulled it into some sort of shape.
“My foot!” he exclaimed to himself, as if dazed by the temerity of his own conception. “My foot!”
Then suddenly his eyes brightened with the fire of determination. He pressed his lips firmly together, stepped down to the door of the tailor shop and opened it with a resolute hand.
“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Sturcke, looking up from her sewing as he entered.
“How de do, ma’am?” Mr. Chidden, glancing hastily around, observed with relief that the pale-faced young man was not in sight. “Out for a breath of air,” he added, leaning against the counter and looking down at the plump little widow from the corner of one eye.
Mrs. Sturcke smiled pleasantly.
“I’m glad to know you can enjoy it, Mr. Chidden. For me, I don’t ever seem to get the time. More work every day, though I suppose I shouldn’t complain about that yet.”
Mr. Chidden agreed that it was a good thing to have work to do, but hastened to add that it was a great pity that ladies should have no time for recreation.
“Walking,” he declared, “is one of the great pleasures of life. It takes you away from things.”
At this the widow smiled again, and invited Mr. Chidden to be seated. There were two empty chairs in the shop — one near the outer door, two paces from where he stood, and the other behind the counter, near that occupied by Mrs. Sturcke. Mr. Chidden hesitated a moment, then deliberately walked through the aisle to the other side of the counter and seated himself on the second chair.
This was, in fact, an amazing performance. In all the years that Mr. Chidden had been sitting down in the tailor shop, whether to wait for a suit of clothes or merely to chat, he had never chosen any other chair than the one by the outer door. It would appear that Mrs. Sturcke appreciated the significance of his action, for she colored visibly and bent a little closer over her sewing. Mr. Chidden himself appeared to be somewhat embarrassed. He took off his hat and put it on again, then removed it once more and dropped it on the floor.
“Don’t do that, Mr. Chidden,” said the widow, picking up the hat and placing it on the counter. “It’ll get all soiled.”
“Not it,” said Mr. Chidden gloomily, his thoughts reverting to the late unpleasantness with his sister. Then he added hastily: “It’s a bit off in color, but it’s my favorite hat.”
“Quite right, too,” Mrs. Sturcke assented somewhat vaguely. “I like to see a man make his choice and stick to it. That was my husband’s fault; he never knew what he wanted. Why, if you’d believe me, Mr. Chidden, he’d have some kind of newfangled thing in here every week. Otherwise he would have done well by the business, for he was a good worker.”
“Still, he left you pretty well fixed,” observed Mr. Chidden, glancing round the neat, well-kept shop.
Mrs. Sturcke stared at him as if surprised.
“As to that,” she said finally, “you know well enough how I’m fixed, and your sister does, too. Not that I’ve anything to complain of Miss Chidden.”
“It would be a wonder if you hadn’t,” returned Mr. Chidden, not quite understanding the widow’s reference to his sister. Nor did he care to discuss so unpleasant a topic. “I tell you what, ma’am,” he continued, throwing one leg over the other and sliding forward in his chair, “I have just about decided to leave my sister for good.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sturcke, stopping her sewing to look at him.
“I do say so,” declared Mr. Chidden almost fiercely. “Shall I tell you the truth, ma’am? I am not happy. I am becoming melancholy. Lonely aspirations. I shall leave and go far away.”
“But where would you go?” cried the widow in evident eagerness. In her tone was admiration of the man’s daring, and a note of something else — was it disappointment?
“I don’t know,” rejoined Mr. Chidden somberly. “But what does it matter, so long as I leave this life behind me? What does—”
“Mr. Chidden!” the widow interrupted in a voice of horror. “You wouldn’t — you wouldn’t — make away with yourself?”
Mr. Chidden stared at her blankly for a moment; then his face suddenly filled with comprehension.
“You misunderstand me,” he explained. “Still, I have had the thought. There are some things, ma’am, that are more than enough to drive a man to suicide. A great sorrow — unguarded affections — only to be met with heartlessness and cruelty—” Mr. Chidden paused, overcome with feeling.
“It’s a woman!” cried Mrs. Sturcke, dropping the sewing to the floor in her excitement.
“It is,” agreed Mr. Chidden sadly. “But not my sister,” he added hastily. “Not her. This woman — this heartless creature — is not like my sister. She is beautiful. She is a widow. She is far too beautiful for sanguinary hopes. And now you know who she is.”
“I do not,” declared Mrs. Sturcke. But her voice trembled, and her eyes were downcast.
“Then must I pronounce her name?” demanded Mr. Chidden, who was now pretty well worked up. “You will laugh at me, ma’am. Very well. I cannot control my affections. Unhappy passion! Mrs. Sturcke, the woman is you!”
Never was amorous avowal better delivered, nor with more telling effect. The widow’s face grew red to her throat and ears. She kept her eyes on the floor, after one fleeting glance at the eager face of the impetuous lover.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Chidden,” she said finally. But, hearing the tremble in her voice, Mr. Chidden cocked one eye — is it possible that he was winking to himself? — and leaned forward in his chair. His expression of hopeless despair gave way to an air of jaunty confidence; he reached forward and took the widow’s hand in his own, and held it tight.
“Mrs. Sturcke — Gretta,” he demanded in a voice vibrant with emotion, “am I to suffer longer?”
The widow raised her head, and turned beaming eyes to his.
“I’m sure I don’t want you to suffer,” she declared tremulously. “But, Mr. Chidden — are you sure yet — iss it me?”
Mr. Chidden masterfully took possession of the other hand. “Gretta, dear,” he murmured, “Gretta, call me Robert.”
“Well — Robert—”
“Will you marry me, Gretta?”
“Ach!”
Then and there was Mr. Bob Chidden like to have been smothered beneath the caresses of a transport of ecstasy. He was in fact bewildered and astonished, for though he had received more than one amiable smile from the plump little widow, he had not supposed that so violent a passion could have been aroused in her white bosom. It was an ordeal he had not counted on, and he might have been smothered literally but for the timely appearance of the pale-faced young man with the tragic eyes, who stopped short on the threshold at the sight that met his astonished gaze.