Hélène prepares her trousseau.Hélène prepares her trousseau.
Hélène prepares her trousseau.Hélène prepares her trousseau.
At this precise moment the innocent object of their strife let himself in at the front door.
"Ah, my dear Professor Von Barwig, I was just thinking of you," said Miss Husted, as she followed him into his rooms. "I've got rid of her at last; Mrs. Mangenborn is going."
Von Barwig smiled. "Is she?" he said simply, "I am glad for your sake. Now you will be mistress of your own establishment."
"I was always mistress of my own establishment, professor," replied Miss Husted with dignity. "Always."
"Except sometimes when the cards would direct the policy of the house," said Von Barwig. "Whenever there is a superstition, dear lady," he went on, "there is no freedom! We become slaves of our own beliefs."
"Well, I'm glad she's going, anyway," said Miss Husted, not quite comprehending, but not wishing to dispute with Von Barwig. "Why, professor!" and Miss Husted started. She had just noticed that his clothes and books were packed into bundles, as if ready to be carried away. "Professor, professor!" she gasped, "what is the meaning of that?" and she pointed to a big stack of music tied up, "and that, and that, and that," pointing to various articles.
"It means, dear lady, that I'm going to move," said Von Barwig complacently.
"Move!" almost shrieked Miss Husted.
"Yes, as the top floor will not come down to me, I shall move up to the top floor. You see I am nearly all ready. Pinac and Fico will help me; and up I shall go! It is one way of getting up in the world, eh, Miss Husted?" he said with a little laugh, and he looked at her as if he expected her to laugh, too, but she did not join in his merriment.
"There's no room upstairs," she said at last, as if determined he should not go.
"Oh, yes, in the hallway; a nice little room, large enough for my wants."
"But that is a storeroom," cried Miss Husted.
"When I occupy it, it will be a bedroom," laughed Von Barwig, "and just think," he added, "I shall be nearer my friends! They can visit me without running up and down stairs. I shall have additional advantages, at a less rental."
Miss Husted looked at him sorrowfully. She knew it was useless to argue with him, so she gave her consent, but insisted on taking a very small sum for her room. And so Von Barwig moved from the ground floor to the attic. This floor with its huge atelier window on the roof and its stair running down at the back had been used by an artist on account of the splendid light. Although a hallway, it was fitted up as a room. There was a stove, a sink, a large cupboard, and other conveniences for light housekeeping. There were four bedroom doors opening into this hallway, three of which were occupied by Pinac, Fico and Poons, and the fourth Von Barwig took possession of. They all begged him to take their rooms, but he shook his head and smiled and they knew it was useless to ask him, so the skylight musketeers, as they called themselves, had complete possession of the hall, which served them as a common parlour.
It was roomy and airy in the summer, but draughty and cold in the winter; as it was now warm weather, Von Barwig and his friends did not suffer any inconvenience at this time. The men did not see much of each other in these days. Pinac and Fico had secured engagements on an excursion steamboat that plied its way to Coney Island and back. They were away all day, and when they came back late at night Von Barwig was at the Museum. He saw more of Poons than he did of the others, for that young man had no regular engagement, but played now and then as substitute in one of the downtown theatre orchestras, so he just about managed to eke out an existence on a cash basis, and the three older men were as proud of this fact as if he were their own son. Von Barwig was strangely happy; he took no interest whatever in his physical existence. His immediate surroundings, the people he saw, the food he ate, made no mental impression upon him. Life was a mechanical process, a routine existence to him till midday, when he would, to quote his own words, "begin to live," that is, he would start uptown on his walk to Fifty-seventh Street. Rain or shine he would not ride, for the motion of riding on the bumpy stages interfered with the flow of his thoughts. "Now begins my day," he would say to himself as he started on his journey to his pupil's house, some four or five miles from Miss Husted's establishment. The old man was happy; happy in going, happy when there, happy when thinking that the next day he would see her again. So when, for the third successive time, in as many days, Joles informed him that Miss Stanton was not at home, Von Barwig experienced a feeling of disappointment accompanied by a sense of fear.
"She—Miss Stanton is well?" faltered he to the dignified Mr. Joles, who was regarding him with a haughty expression, not unaccompanied with disdain.
"I beg your pardon!" said Joles in anything but an apologetic manner.
"Miss Stanton is well?" repeated Von Barwig.
"Oh, yes," replied Joles. "Indeed, yes." His answer intended to convey to Von Barwig that such a question was entirely unnecessary, not to say uncalled for.
"It's very strange," Von Barwig mused as he walked home. "She always writes me a little note or leaves a message for me with one of the servants, letting me know when to come for the next lesson."
Then he tried to assure himself that it was all right, that in the stress of her social obligations she had forgotten.
"It's all right, Barwig, you make yourself miserable for nothing. You expect too much. She is a petted, pampered, fêted young lady of fortune, the daughter of a Croesus; do you think she can always think of you? Who are you that she should spare you so much time? You overrate yourself; you—you idiot." People stopped in the streets to look at the old man, who was walking so rapidly and gesticulating so excitedly. When Von Barwig saw that he was observed, he calmed down. "It's all right," he said. "To-morrow! I shall see her to-morrow!"
That evening at the Museum the night professor was strangely inattentive. So deeply was he engrossed in his own thoughts that he entirely forgot to play when Bosco was announced. He was rewarded by that young lady with a look that was intended to annihilate him on the spot, but the professor did not happen to be looking that way. "She will be there to-morrow, or she will leave a message," he was saying to himself.
"Bites their heads off; bites their heads off! Holy gee! Don't you hear, profess'? It's her cue," came in thundering tones from the throat of Mr. Al Costello. "What the hell's the matter, profess'? Eats 'em alive, eats 'em alive!" he bawled, glaring at Von Barwig, and then the night professor "found himself."
"Oh, my gracious," he thought as he banged on the piano—the chords intended to depict musically the armless wonder's cannibalistic proclivities. Bosco not only bit their heads off, she bit her lips with vexation. It was too late; not a hand applauded when she came on and the fat lady laughed aloud and fanned herself vigorously. She hated Miss Bosco, who, being a headliner, had lorded it over the rest of the unfortunate freaks in a manner deeply resented by them; so the fat lady was glad to see Bosco's act fall down. The skeleton looked wise and tapped his bony forehead with his bony fingers.
"Dippy," he articulated. "All musicians are dippy," he added.
The midgets looked serious, for they loved the professor. Tears started in the little lady's eyes; she expected a storm, for she was terribly afraid of Bosco.
"I do hope that Mr. Costello won't haul him over the coals," said the albino to the tattooed girl. "He's such a nice old guy!"
After the show Mr. Costello listened to Von Barwig's apology in silence, and silence meant a great deal of self-restraint for him.
"It's all right if she don't raise a holler," he said, taking his diamond ring off his necktie and placing it on his finger for the night. "But you must keep awake, see? It looks like blazes to see the profess' asleep! It not only sets the audience a bad example, but it looks as if we was givin' a bum show." Then he added warningly, "We had one profess' last year who went to sleep on us regular, and snored so that we used his noise instead of the snare drums. Well, we left him sound asleep after the show one night and turned the lights off. When he woke up he thought the wax figures was ghosts, and he threw a fit right on the piano. Holy Mackerel! It took nearly two quarts of whiskey to get him right for the next show; so don't do it again, profess'," he ended solemnly.
Von Barwig promised that he would not—but he made up his mind that just as soon as terms for teaching Mrs. Cruger's nieces were arranged, he would at once give Mr. Costello notice of his determination to resign from the night professorship at the Museum. This thought contributed in no small degree to his peace of mind, for he had begun to loathe the very thought of this place.
When Von Barwig arrived home he found a letter on the hall table. He went up to his little room, lit the candle, sat down on his bed and read the following:
"Mrs. Cruger presents her compliments to Herr Von Barwig, and regrets to inform him that unexpected circumstances have arisen which will obviate the necessity of his calling upon her in regard to her nieces' studies."
"Very well," he said to himself, as he folded up the letter. "I shall have more time to think of her," and he went to bed and slept peacefully.
A week elapsed. Each day he had patiently gone uptown to Miss Stanton's house. He had started out full of hope and returned home in despair. On each occasion he had been informed by Mr. Joles that Miss Stanton was out, that she had left no message for him, and that he did not know when she would return. Finally he wrote to her and waited patiently for an answer; but there was no word. The old man's hope of seeing her again gradually grew smaller and smaller until at last the old feeling of dull despair, the old gnawing pain of unsatisfied affection came back to him again. "I am doomed," he thought; "doomed to live my life alone!" He would sit for hours and hours and try to think out why she did not see him, why she did not answer his letter. Was she away? If so, why did she not let him know? Had she found out that he played in a Bowery museum? Or did she suspect that he knew that she did not need lessons? If so, was that sufficient cause for her neglect? No, he could not reason it out on those lines! Why did Mrs. Cruger send him a note dismissing him after practically promising to engage him as music master to her nieces? Did Mrs. Cruger dismiss him at all, or had circumstances arisen that obviated the necessity of engaging him? Was it merely a coincidence that she should dismiss him at the same time that Hélène avoided seeing him? Were these two conditions in any way connected with each other? Was Hélène really trying to avoid him? Had she received his letter? Did she really know? This last question gave him much comfort and he persistently dwelt on that phase of the situation. To believe that she knew; it was inconceivable to him. She would surely have written. "Did I address the letters properly? Did I put stamps on?" he asked himself. "There is a mistake somewhere," he concluded; "a mistake that time will surely adjust."
The next day, after going through the usual performance of asking for Miss Stanton and being informed by Mr. Joles of the young lady's absence, Von Barwig ventured to extend the field of his inquiry.
"Is Mr. Stanton in?" he asked in a low voice, scarcely knowing why he should ask for her father, or what he should say if he was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with him.
"Mr. Stanton!" repeated Mr. Joles, almost horrified at the idea of Von Barwig's asking for his master.
"Mr. Stanton?" he repeated. "Have you an appointment with him?"
Von Barwig admitted that he had not.
"Mr. Stanton sees no one without an appointment," said Mr. Joles, slowly recovering from the shock Von Barwig had given him. "Besides which, he is at present at Bar Harbour."
"Are you sure there is no message for me?" pleaded Von Barwig.
"Quite sure," responded Mr. Joles.
"But there must be," pleaded the old man. He was desperate now. "Did she get my note?"
"My advice is for you to go home and wait till Miss Stanton signifies that your presence is required. That's the best thing to do—really." Mr. Joles volunteered this advice, which contained little comfort, but Von Barwig's lip quivered and he nodded his head thankfully. Even the advice to go away and stay away contained more hope than the cold stolid stone-wall indifference he had encountered day after day from Mr. Joles.
"Thank you, Mr. Joles! I will, I will," and Von Barwig plodded his way wearily back to Houston Street. For one whole week he did not go near the Stanton house. He contented himself with hoping. He would sit in his little room and rush out every time he heard the letter-carrier's whistle, but no letter came. One day, when he could no longer restrain himself, he carefully brushed his clothes and prepared to walk uptown again.
"She must be in, she must be in; and she will see me. This time I know she will see me; I am sure of it; sure of it," he kept repeating to himself. "She can't be so cruel!"
He found himself looking into a florist's window and started with a cry of joy.
"That's a good omen, a very good omen! You're all right, Barwig; she will see you."
He had recognised the florist in Union Square that he had bought the violets he presented her with on the day he first called upon her. He went in and bought a bunch of violets.
"We begin all over again," he said to himself. "We forget all this weary waiting, all this stupid fear. Now, Miss Hélène, we are prepared for our lesson," he said, as he took the box of flowers and walked uptown with renewed hope. His heart beat very rapidly as he walked up the steps.
"Courage, Barwig," he said to himself; "the tide turns I You will see!"
He rang the bell. There was no answer. Several times he repeated this action; each time he waited several minutes. Finally he rang the bell, and added to it a loud knock. His persistence was rewarded, for Mr. Joles came to the door. He did not wait for Von Barwig to speak, as he usually did, but proceeded to inform the old man that his actions were "simply disgraceful."
"Miss Stanton is not in and what's more she is not liable to be in," he said severely. "Some people cannot take a hint! If Miss Stanton wanted to see you, Miss Stanton would have sent for you," added Mr. Joles, and his manner was quite ruffled. He took it as a personal offence that Mr. Von Barwig should so persist in calling at a house where it was evident he was not wanted.
Von Barwig was speechless; he could make no reply. Insulted, turned away, humiliated by her servants! She must know, he felt sure she knew now and his degradation was complete. The old man turned to go now desiring only to get away, somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide his head, where he could hide his grief from the world. Joles shut the door with a bang. He evidently intended that the music master's dismissal should be final. That door bang put a new idea into Von Barwig's bewildered brain.
"That does not come from her," he cried, "she does not insult, she does not lacerate the heart, she would not purposely humiliate me. No, this last degradation could emanate only from one who has the soul of a servant. This is revenge! He hates me, but why? Good God! Why? I've done nothing to him," and the old man groaned aloud in his misery. "I'll wait and see, perhaps she is at Bar Harbour with her father. How do I know? How do I know?"
After this, Von Barwig did something that he had never done before in his whole life; he hid himself in the shadow of the opposite corner, and watched. "It is a mean action," he said to himself, "but she will forgive, she will forgive!"
For hours he stood there watching and waiting, and the time slipped by almost without his being conscious of it, until the shadows of night began to fall. Once a policeman, seeing him crouched in the corner, stopped and looked at him.
"What are you doing there?" he asked.
Von Barwig turned his pale, tear-stained countenance and looked at the officer; then a gentle smile crept over his face.
"I am waiting," he said simply.
There was such utter pathos in the old man's voice, such gentle dignity in his manner, such a pleading look in his eyes that it seemed to satisfy the guardian of the law, for he walked on without uttering another word.
Von Barwig's weary vigil soon came to an end. A pair of horses and a carriage drove up to the Stanton mansion and stopped at its doors. Von Barwig instantly recognised the Stanton livery, but the carriage was empty.
"It is waiting for some one," he muttered to himself. "Courage, courage! We shall soon see!"
It was now nearly dark, and he could approach nearer to the house without fear of being seen. The carriage stood there quite a time, during which the horses pawed the ground impatiently.
"Patience, patience," said Von Barwig to himself. "You soon see."
His patience was rewarded, for the door opened, and Hélène Stanton issued forth, clad in a handsome evening costume. To Von Barwig's fevered mind, she looked more radiantly beautiful, more tranquilly happy than he had ever before seen her. She walked rapidly down the brown stone steps, stepped quickly into the carriage and was whirled away before Von Barwig could realise what had happened. The old man could have shrieked aloud in his agony.
"She knows, she knows, she knows!" he kept saying to himself, as he groped his way toward home. He was dazed, benumbed. The many figures coming and going, this way and that way, seemed like a spectral vision to him. How he got as far as Union Square he never knew, but the first place he recognised was the open square. A large piano organ was playing and quite a number of people were grouped around it. This music recalled him to himself.
"I know the worst now; the sword of hope no longer hangs over my head. At least my suspense is over," he said, "thank God it is over!"
He now realised what had happened.
"No more waiting and watching for the word that never comes!" he thought. "My dream is over! I am awake again, I will think no more of it."
He was walking across the square now. The evening was warm and sultry and all the benches were crowded with people except one on which a woman was seated holding a babe that was crying.
"Either people do not want to disturb her, or they do not want to be disturbed by the crying infant," thought Von Barwig, mechanically taking in the situation. He was now acutely conscious of things going on around him.
"What is the matter with that baby?" he wondered. He stooped and looked at the infant. It was crying piteously, so he looked at the woman and was struck by the fact that she was taking no notice of her child. She seemed to be absolutely unconscious of the fact that it was crying.
"How strange!" thought Von Barwig.
She was a young, girlish woman with rather attractive features, but pale and wan. Von Barwig could not help noticing the look of abject despair on her face. The child cried on, but she seemed oblivious of the fact.
"Can she hear it?" he asked himself. "Is she the mother and yet allows the babe to suffer without trying to help it?" Von Barwig's interest was aroused and he determined to speak to her.
"I beg your pardon," he said gently to the girl. "Can I not do something for you?"
She turned to him and shook her head.
"Can I do something for the child? It—it suffers."
"Yes," responded the girl in a hoarse voice. "I suppose it does—it's hungry!"
Instinctively Von Barwig put his hand in his pocket, but the girl shook her head.
"Not that, not that!" she said quickly. "I have enough to eat, but—" She looked at him more closely, looked into his eyes, and felt rather than saw that it was not mere idle curiosity that was prompting his question.
"It's very kind of you to take an interest in a stranger. I'm feeding the child myself," she said after a pause; "but I can't now, I can't!" The girl tried hard to keep back her tears. "It would poison her if I did! I dare not until I feel different. I'm full of hate and misery and hell, and I dare not feed it to the child. Mother's milk is poison when the mother feels as I do!" she cried, striking her breast in her misery.
The old man took her hand. "Don't, please don't," he said gently; "unless you want the child to die. Compose yourself, my dear girl, and tell me what has happened. I'm a stranger to you, yes, but misery brings us together and makes us old friends." He seated himself beside her. "Tell me; I am old enough to be your father! You have none, eh?"
"Yes," said the girl, "I have, but—" she broke off suddenly. Then she said, "My husband has left me, and the child not eight weeks old. Isn't that hard luck? Left me—for another! Oh, I know it's an old story, but it's new enough to me. God knows it's new enough to me!"
Von Barwig comforted her as well as he could, and when the girl quieted down she told him her story. It was conventional enough. She had run away from home and married a young fellow she met in a Harlem dance hall. She knew nothing of his people or of his early life. She simply married him, and now he had deserted her after the arrival of her child. There was nothing uncommon or strange either in her story or her way of telling it. Von Barwig had heard such stories hundreds of times, but to him the pathos of the situation lay in the inability of the young mother to feed the crying child owing to her distracted mental condition. Further, the fact that she was sufficiently acquainted with the laws of physiology to realise this truth showed Von Barwig that the girl had received a better education than most of her class.
"Have you money?" he asked her.
"A little," the girl replied listlessly. "Oh, God, if the child would only stop crying," she said as she kissed and fondled the babe. Then she sighed. "I feel better now," she said, "much better. Perhaps in a little while I shall be myself again." Von Barwig handed her a five dollar bill.
"You will buy the little fellow something with the compliments of a stranger. What do you call him?" he said quickly, for he saw that his generous action had brought tears to the girl's eyes and he wanted to prevent her crying. "He's a fine little chap," he added.
"It's a girl," she said, the ghost of a smile coming into her face. "Her name is Annie. I'll take this for her sake. Thank you, sir, thank you!"
"A little girl," he said in his low, gentle voice; "a little girl! I had a little girl once," and he stifled the sob that came into his throat. The girl heard this sob and squeezed his hand gently in sympathy.
"Let me tell you a story, my child, it may help you to bear the burden of life, as your story has helped me!"
Von Barwig reseated himself by the girl's side and recounted to her the whole story of his miserable unhappy existence from beginning to end. This stranger was the only one to whom he had ever told it all. The girl was intensely interested, and it had the desired effect of taking her thoughts off her own misery. When Von Barwig took his leave of her an hour or so later, the colour had come into her waxen cheeks and she was quietly nursing her baby.
"I have been asleep," he said to himself, "but I am awake now. Life is all about me; I must not be blind to it again!"
As Von Barwig turned the corner of Houston Street and the Bowery, he glanced at the clock in the watchmaker's on the corner. It was eleven o'clock. He did not go to the Museum that night.
"Are you quite sure there is no letter for me, Joles?" Hélène asked anxiously, as she came in late that night.
"Quite sure, miss."
Hélène thought a moment. "It's very strange," she said. "I've written to him so many times."
Joles's face expressed nothing. Hélène shook her f head slowly and walked upstairs. Before she went to bed that night she sent the following note:
"MY DEAREST BEVERLY: Come to-morrow morning and take me to lunch. I want you to do a little diplomatic work for me."Your loving"HÉLÈNE."
Von Barwig now firmly made up his mind that it would never be his good fortune to see his beloved pupil again. "She has gone out of my life as suddenly as she came into it," he said with a deep sigh.
To a man of his mental activity the loss of almost the sole object of his thoughts created an aching void, and yet so hopeful was he in spite of the constant repetition of blasted hopes and unfilled desire that two or three days after the occurrences just narrated he had resolved on a new plan of action.
"Poons and Jenny shall marry at once," said he as he arose that morning and dressed himself to go to the rehearsal of a new songstress at the Museum.
"The son of your old friend and the niece of your good landlady shall mark a new epoch for you, Barwig. You overrated yourself, you loved the daughter of millions, you lived beyond your means, my friend. Now it is time you lived within your income," he said, looking at himself in the glass, as he combed his grey hair. "Love Jenny and Poons; poor little neglected ones, you had forgotten their existence! No more extravagances, no more reaching for the impossible! Here down in Houston Street is your life! It is your own, live it! Don't go after the fleshpots of Fifth Avenue, don't cheapen yourself that servants and lackeys may insult and deride you."
Yet ever as he spoke, a mental image of his beloved pupil came before him, and his heart sank as he thought that he should never see her again.
"Why has a mere thought, a stray idea the power to make us so unhappy?" he asked himself. This question was still unanswered when there came into his mind the memory of the unfortunate young woman he had met on Union Square a few nights before. Her misery, her agony of mind, the crying babe, all came before him in a flash. "My God, when I think of her, I am ashamed of myself! Here I howl and tear my hair and rail at fortune because I lose something that I never had; she was never mine—this girl of millions—I had no right to her. But the sufferings of that poor child-wife are real, deep, heartrending; and there are thousands of others like her in this world. Get up, sluggard, get up! Go out and comfort them; go out into the world and mend broken hearts. It is your trade! You have qualified, for your own is battered to pieces."
This idea gave him peace of mind for a short time, but presently his thoughts ran into the old groove. Try as he would he could not direct them away from the line of easiest mental resistance.
"If I could only see her once again," he thought, "perhaps I could explain away the cause of our separation. Perhaps I—" and he started up suddenly, the idea sweeping him off his feet. "By God, I make one more effort; just one more effort! And if that fails, I give it up; it shall be the last! This time I swear it shall be the last. Yes, I go, I demand an interview. It is my right." He was as full of hope now as he had ever been. As a gambler eagerly stakes his last bet, so Von Barwig hastened to finish dressing and go to her, to make his one last appeal.
As he brushed his coat hurriedly, there came a knock at the door. "Come in," said Von Barwig rather impatiently, thinking that it was Poons. He did not feel in the mood just at that moment for casual conversation. "Come in," he repeated in a louder voice, and to his utter amazement in walked Beverly Cruger.
Von Barwig could only stare at him in speechless astonishment. He was literally dumfounded. Young Cruger evidently saw this, for he seized Von Barwig's hand and shook it warmly.
"How do you do, Herr Von Barwig?" he said.
"Thank you, well! Sit down," the old man managed to gasp out, as he pointed to a chair. "You come from her, from Miss Stanton?" he articulated in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the younger man.
"Yes," said Beverly, taking off his gloves and placing them on the table. "I want to have a little talk with you. May I?"
Von Barwig did not answer his question.
"Did—she—did she send you?" he asked. His eyes glistened; his very life seemed to depend on the answer.
Beverly nodded. "Yes, she wanted me to ask you a few questions. Are you sure you have the time to spare?"
Von Barwig laughed from sheer joy. Time! to some one who came from her! He could only nod in acquiescence and wait for the young man to speak.
"How many letters have you received from Miss Stanton?" asked Beverly.
Von Barwig looked at him. "Not any," he replied, shaking his head sadly.
Beverly made no comment, but he made a mental note. It was not his intention at that moment at least to acquaint Herr Von Barwig with all that had passed between Hélène and himself as to the letters that had failed to reach their destination.
"Didn't receive one, eh?"
"No, not one," said Von Barwig, in a low voice. "Has she written?" he asked falteringly.
Beverly made no reply, but thought a moment.
"How many letters have you sent Miss Stanton?" he asked.
Von Barwig hesitated. "Perhaps—perhaps some five or six," he said apologetically.
"Hum!" commented Beverly, "five or six, eh? How many times have you called during, say, the past month?"
Von Barwig shook his head; he could not remember. "Perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty times."
"And she was always out?" queried Beverly.
"Yes," said Von Barwig sorrowfully, "always!"
"Whom did you see?"
"Mr. Joles," came the ready reply.
"Every time you called?"
"Yes, I—I think so!"
Beverly Cruger looked at Von Barwig a few moments and knitted his brows thoughtfully. "It's damn queer," he said, after a pause.
"Has she written any letter to me? It did not reach me, that I am sure," began the old man.
"That's all right. Now let me give you Miss Stanton's message! She would like you to be at her home at four o'clock this afternoon. Can you manage it?"
Von Barwig did not trust himself to reply. He could only nod his head affirmatively.
"I'm glad I came up; awfully glad!"
Beverly arose from his seat and held out his hand to Von Barwig.
"Good-bye! Be on time, won't you?" he said.
Von Barwig smiled. "Yes, I'll be on time," he said joyfully.
The look in the old man's face went to Beverly Cruger's heart and he showed his sympathy as he shook hands with him again. He hurriedly passed through the group of children who had gathered to look at the not too familiar spectacle of a hansom cab waiting at the door of Miss Husted's establishment.
Von Barwig will always remember how wearily the hours dragged along until the time of his appointment uptown came. Finally they did pass, and though it lacked several minutes of the hour of four, Von Barwig walked up the stone steps of Mr. Henry Stanton's house on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.
There was no change in the expression of Mr. Joles's face to denote that he had received imperative instructions from Miss Stanton to admit Herr Von Barwig the moment he called. Nor did Mr. Joles appear to think it at all curious that young Mr. Cruger should happen to be in the hallway just as the music master came in at the door. His face displayed no emotion whatever when that young gentleman came forward and led the old man upstairs to Miss Stanton's room. Neither Mr. Cruger nor the music master saw the pale face of Mr. Stanton's secretary, Ditson, peering over the staircase at them. But a moment later a telegram was sent to Mr. Stanton, telling him that there was an urgent necessity for him to come home at once. Curiously enough at about the same time Mr. Stanton received this telegram, he also received a letter from his daughter begging him to come home as soon as he could, as her mail had been tampered with and she strongly suspected Joles of acting in a most deceitful manner for reasons she could not fathom. It was because she expected her father that she acted under Beverly's advice and did not mention the subject to Joles, nor even to Herr Von Barwig until her father had instituted an inquiry.
The meeting between Von Barwig and his pupil was marked by no special display of emotion or even more than ordinary interest; for Von Barwig had steeled himself for the occasion. They greeted each other cordially, but it was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to conceal his delight at seeing her once more. Again occurred the formal presentation of the little bunch of violets; again the casual remarks about the weather.
"You are not angry?" asked Hélène tenderly.
Von Barwig dared not reply; he could only smile and look at her in silence. After a pause he ventured to say:
"I have offended Mr. Joles's feelings. I am sorry!" Hélène held up a warning finger, indicating her desire to keep silence on that subject, at least for the present.
"Later on!" she said. "I intend to take up the subject with my father when he returns."
Von Barwig watched himself closely. He was determined to make no more mistakes, nor to yield to any temptation to give way to his feelings in the slightest degree.
"You have practised since I—during my absence?" he asked, assuming a sternness he by no means felt, and that she saw through at once.
"Yes,maestro," she replied meekly. "I have practised every day. I've really made great progress,caro maestro!" and she laughed softly.
"We shall see," said Von Barwig, with a critical frown on his face. He was a little self-conscious. He knew his own weakness, his temptation to become sentimental, and he had to watch himself continually to prevent his emotional nature from getting uppermost. This self-restraint made him slightly ill at ease, and Hélène noticed it.
"You are strangely quiet this afternoon," she said. "I should have thought you would have had a great deal to tell me." Von Barwig merely looked at her.
"Come," said he, "we must get to work!"
"You did not receive a single line from me?" she asked as they neared the end of the lesson. "What must you have thought?"
"What right have I to think?" replied Von Barwig. "I am only a teacher! There are so many. I thought perhaps you had replaced me."
"Don't talk like that, please," said Hélène quickly, and shutting the piano up with a bang, she arose. "You know that I esteem you very highly," and she stopped suddenly. "I am going to find out all about these stolen letters and father will punish the culprit. He is very strict in these matters; he always punishes the guilty."
"But it is over and done now, so why punish any one?" began Von Barwig. Hélène shook her head.
"It hasn't begun yet," she said, ringing the bell. Denning answered it. "Send Joles please," she said.
Denning bowed and a little later Joles appeared.
"Herr Von Barwig, my music master, will be here at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. You will please admit him at once."
"Yes, madam," and Joles bowed his head rather lower than usual.
Von Barwig took leave of his pupil, appearing not to notice her outstretched hand, but merely bowing to her as he said good-bye. Joles opened the front door for him and Von Barwig looked at him pityingly. His triumph over the servant was so complete that he felt sorry for him.
"Perhaps you did not mean to keep back the letters," said Von Barwig to him in a low, sympathetic voice.
Joles looked at him in blank astonishment.
"You have perhaps a family to support," went on Von Barwig. "I will ask Mr. Stanton to forgive you."
"Sir!" said Mr. Joles, with some slight show of indignation, "I do not understand you."
Von Barwig looked at the man a moment, and seeing that it was useless to discuss the matter with him he walked slowly down the stone steps, wondering what it all meant.
On the following morning Mr. Stanton arrived home. He appeared to be in very high spirits. Hélène could not remember when her father had been so light-hearted and gay. She wanted to tell him about the suppression of her letters, of Joles's contempt for her orders, and his lies about Von Barwig, but these were matters that evidently did not interest Mr. Stanton, for he paid very little attention to her complaints.
"It is your birthday," he said, "let no unpleasant features mar the day! See, I have not forgotten!" and Mr. Stanton produced a box that came from the most fashionable and most expensive jewelry establishment in America. "A trifle," he said. "Put it with your other gifts and show it to your friends when they come this afternoon."
Hélène opened the box. Accustomed as she was to beautiful jewels, she could only gasp. Within it was a magnificent pearl necklace, beautifully graded, with colour matching to perfection.
"A trifle!" she repeated. "Father, it's beautiful!" She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, to kiss him for his bountiful gift, but something in his manner checked her, so she stifled the impulse and contented herself with holding up her face. Mr. Stanton kissed her coldly and Hélène drew back. It was an instinctive repulsion and she could not help showing it; he, on his part, appeared not to notice it.
"I will inquire into the matter of your letters being tampered with," he said, "although I am confident that you will find that you are labouring under some mistake. Joles is as honest as the day. What could be his motive?"
Hélène was silent. Her father did not pursue the subject.
"The Crugers are coming to-day," he said finally.
"Indeed?" said Hélène, somewhat surprised. "Beverly is coming, I believe; but I did not know his father and mother were."
"I informed the Crugers that I had returned to town, and that I should be very pleased to see them this afternoon. I told them it was your birthday and—" He paused, saying in a more decided tone:
"It is my intention to urge an immediate marriage, Hélène." He spoke with an effort. "I may be called away at any moment, and——"
Hélène noticed that her father looked pale and worried and decidedly ill at ease.
"I shall esteem it a great favour if you will not interpose any objection to my project for this marriage. I have asked several of our friends here to-day, and I have given them to understand that the date of the marriage would be announced. It is your birthday, so it will be a double event, as it were." He paused and looked at her.
"Do as you think best!" she said finally. She felt it was useless to contend with him. For some reason or other he wanted an early marriage; so be it!
"You have asked several friends," she said. "Have you asked any of my mother's people?"
"No," replied Mr. Stanton abruptly.
"Mrs. Cruger said she hoped some day to meet some of my mother's relations. Father, how is it I know nothing of her or her people? What is the mystery about her? Every time cards are sent out from this house for any function I am always reminded that there is not one of her family to come to this house. On an occasion like this I should have thought——"
"She had no relatives," interrupted Mr. Stanton, "or I should have asked them. Please discontinue the subject; it is by no means a pleasant one. Good God, what a girl you are! I come to you with a gift fit for a princess; and you, you ungrateful——"
Mr. Stanton looked at her with a look of intense anger, almost of hatred; then turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Hélène returned to her room. She was quite thoughtful. "An early marriage! Yes, the sooner the better!" She almost threw the necklace among the many gifts that had been sent her. She wished her father had not given it to her. It was evidently not in her to express the gratitude he deserved and she was angry with herself that she was not more grateful to him.
That afternoon when Von Barwig was admitted to her presence he saw a pile of boxes, flowers, jewelry—gifts of all sorts on the piano. He noticed also that the dolls were on the outside of the cabinet, instead of inside, where she usually kept them.
"It's my birthday," she said in explanation. "I've been having a good time with my dolls." She smiled as she saw that he was holding out a little bunch of violets.
"For you!" he said.
"You must really stop this sort of thing, sir, or I shall be very angry!" But she took them and pressed them to her face.
"They look very meagre among all this great horticultural display," said Von Barwig regretfully.
"They came from the heart and I love them," she said as she fastened them in her corsage.
"Well, now we begin," he said as he took out the lead pencil that he always used as a baton. "There must be progress to-day."
He opened the piano and she sat down and looked at the music he placed there for her. He had chosen a well-known exercise, a Czerny; not a difficult one, but requiring some technique to play with precision.
"Come, begin!" and she rattled off at a 6-8 allegretto, the music which was intended to be played in three-quarter andante.
"Very pretty," commented Von Barwig, "very pretty indeed, but you finish before you commence!"
"That's the rate at which I'm thinking," said Hélène. "When I think rapidly I play rapidly. My thoughts can only be described aspresto."
"That's rather hard on the composer, Miss Stanton. Come, I count for you! One, two, three. One, two, three; One, two, three. The fingers should be little hammers, so! One, two, three. Dear young lady, this is not a thumb exercise; it is for the fingers."
"Am I playing with my thumbs?" she asked.
"Come; please, please!" he entreated.
"I can't refuse when you plead so hard," she said.
"One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted monotonously.
"You like me, don't you?" she asked irrelevantly, a mischievous smile on her face. Von Barwig tried to look stern but failed ignominiously. "Please attend," he said. "One, two, three; one, two, three. Ah, you play so unevenly! Sometimes you have the touch of an artist, at another you make bungles."
"Bungles?" repeated Hélène, laughing. "What are they?"
"One, two, three; not six-eighth, dear lady, not six-eighth! So! One, two, three! one, two, three."
"Did I show you my new necklace?" she asked as she played on.
Von Barwig shook his head. "One, two, three," was all she could elicit from him.
"Father gave it to me; to-day is my birthday."
"Your birthday; so?" said Von Barwig, still marking time. "Your birthday?" he repeated.
"Yes, mio maestro; I am nineteen to-day."
"Nineteen! One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. Then after a pause, "nineteen?"
She looked up, he was still counting and beating time with the lead pencil as a baton. But there was a far-away look in his eyes, as if he were trying to recall something. "Nineteen to-day; nineteen to-day!" he repeated, as if he had not quite realised what she said.
"One, two, three; one, two, three." Was there a break in his voice?
"Nineteen to-day!" Then he looked at her as she played.
"Where were you born?" he asked suddenly.
"In Leipsic," she replied carelessly.
Von Barwig stopped counting, his baton poised in the air.
"In Leipsic!" he repeated hoarsely. "In Leipsic? She—would have been nineteen to-day. Ach Gott, Gott!"
Hélène turned and looked at him.
"One, two, three; one, two, three," chanted the music master. He dared not let her see his agitation. "What does it mean? How can it be? Good God, how can it be?" His brain was in a whirl; the possibilities came to him in an overwhelming flood.
"You really must see that pearl necklace," said Hélène, "and some of the other presents are very beautiful. Do look at them!"
"One, two, three; one, two, three," came in monotonous tones from the old man. Completely gone was his sense of rhythm now. "One, two, three; one, two, three," he continued, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. "Does it mean that she is my—my— Oh, God! I must be mad, crazy! Barwig, Barwig, pull yourself together, for God's sake; or you lose her again." One, two, three; one, two, three seemed to be the only safe ground for him to tread on!
Hélène felt that he was not following the music, for her fingers strayed idly over the keys, playing snatches of different melodies, a fact which he apparently did not notice.
"The necklace is over there," she said.
"Yes, yes," he gasped, going in the direction she pointed. "One, two, three; one, two, three. It is beautiful; beautiful!" He scarcely looked at it.
"Did you ever see my dolls? I don't think I ever showed them to you. They're over there in the cabinet."
"Your dolls? Yes, I look at them!" he said. He was glad of an opportunity to escape observation. After a while his mind became calm enough for him to be able to realise what he was thinking, and the urgent necessity for him to conceal from her his mad folly. Nineteen to-day, born in Leipsic, the daughter of the rich millionaire; yet, on the other hand, the image of his own lost Hélène, born on the same day, at the same place and bearing the same name. It was all so consistent and yet so contradictory! What could it mean? Was it a phantasy of his brain, a dream? It seemed to him that he had once witnessed just such a scene as was taking place at that moment. Surely it had occurred before! He was now picking up first one doll, then another, but he did not see them——
"One, two, three; one, two, three;" he said pathetically, trying to control his thoughts. He realised that he was counting "up in the air," so to speak, but he was afraid of betraying himself. "If she suspected that I dared to think that she was my own Hélène, she'd turn me from the house," he thought.
"I've kept all these old dolls since I was a little baby; even my little German doll is there," said Hélène as she played on.
Von Barwig took up the dolls, one by one. "Your German doll?" he repeated.
"Yes, the one I had in Leipsic. It's a queer little sawdust affair, but I love it to pieces. It always reminds me of my mother. Do you know what I am playing?" but Von Barwig did not hear her.
"The little German doll," he repeated. "The one she had in Leipsic."
"I heard this at your house the night we first met," went on Hélène, playing dreamily. "It's a beautiful melody; it has so much sentiment in it, so much pathos, but oh, isn't it sad," and she sighed deeply.
Was it illusion, too, that the ghost of his long-forgotten symphony should be played by the girl at the piano there, who so resembled his own lost loved one? Was it illusion that he should recognise that little doll, her doll, as the doll with which his own child, his own Hélène, had played so long ago?
Von Barwig did not start as he picked up this mute evidence of the truth; he was almost prepared for it. It was as if he knew she was his own, and yet did not know it.
"That eye was never mended after all," he said in a pathetic, broken voice, and as he spoke the whole scene of years gone by came back to him. He saw once more his little girl pleading with him to mend the doll with the broken eye.
Von Barwig was quite calm now. He had grasped a certainty at last; he knew now that he did not dream. He looked over at the piano. The girl felt deeply the music that she was playing, for it responded to something in her own nature; and so interested was she at this moment that she almost forgot his presence. Tears filled his eyes as he gazed at her longingly, lovingly.
"Little heart! Ach, lieber Gott, my little Hélène; my little baby! How long, how long!" he murmured, smothering his emotion, but looking now at her, now at the little German doll clutched tightly in his hand.