"I want you to come with us?""I want you to come with us?"
"I want you to come with us?""I want you to come with us?"
After a while a feeling of great peace came upon him. His mission was ended; he had found her at last. His longing heart had reached its haven.
"That's the doll my mother loved best," said Hélène, without pausing in her playing. "She loved to play with that doll and me."
He, too, was thinking of her mother. Was it telepathy that she should think the very thought that was uppermost in his mind?
"There's a portrait of her in the next room," and she pointed to the door off the main room. "It was painted by an artist here in New York three years before she died."
Von Barwig dared not trust himself to speak. He silently opened the door and looked. "Elene, Elene!" he murmured in a low voice. He stood there some time gazing at the portrait of his dead wife, and his eyes were swimming with tears. "Yes, there she is," he said, his low, sad voice scarcely audible through the music. "Elene! Ach, Gott! dead, dead! Better so; better—so——"
He closed the door gently. As he did so a tear ran down his cheek and dropped on the little German doll. "I baptise it," he said with a smile, and then he sighed deeply.
The feeling of deep, unsatisfied longing died out of his heart and from that moment a sense of great freedom took possession of him. He looked over at his beloved Hélène. She was still rhapsodising on the piano, utterly unconscious of the great struggle going on in the heart of her music master. What could he offer her? Should he ruin all her prospects? Had he a home fit for her to come to?
These thoughts surged through his mind as he looked at her. His first great impulse was to tell her who he was and take her to his heart, but with a supreme effort he controlled himself. He had so often pictured the scene of his first meeting with his child that it seemed almost as if he had been through this crisis before, but he had never dreamed that she would be occupying such a high station in life, never dreamed that to make his relationship known would ruin her prospects, and perhaps her happiness. This realisation gave him a perspective of the situation and he resolved for the sake of her future not to betray himself. He walked slowly to the piano, and stood behind her a few moments, then suddenly he lost control of himself and took her hands in his.
"What is it?" she said, in some surprise, but with no tinge of anger in her voice.
"You slurred," he faltered, not daring to look her in the face, for fear his great love would show itself.
"You mustn't slur—please," he murmured apologetically.
"Did I slur?" she asked. "Well, I assure you, it was unconscious. I didn't mean to do it."
"You are very happy here?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, surprised at the irrelevancy of the question.
He was now stroking her hair with his gentle, loving hand.
"You have everything in the world, everything?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, scarcely conscious of his meaning.
"And you are happy?" he repeated.
"Why shouldn't I be?" she said. "I suppose I have everything to make me."
She stopped playing. This seemed to bring Von Barwig to a sense of his surroundings.
"Come," he said. "We must work! To the lesson! One, two, three; one, two, three."
He could not resist the impulse. He leaned over and again grasped her hands in his. She looked up at him, this time in utter surprise.
"You were slurring again, slurring again," he said, frightened at his lack of self-control.
"Was I, indeed?" said Hélène. "Well, you'll have to punish me severely if this goes on."
"One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. His voice was choked with emotion, and he could barely see for his tears.
"No, no; I could not punish you. I could not put one straw in your way—only—I want to meet your father. Yes," he said in a more decided tone, "I want to meet your father! One, two, three; one, two, three." Whenever Von Barwig wanted to conceal his real feelings he counted.
"I've gone into the 4-4 exercise," commented Hélène.
"Yes, yes! One, two, three, four," counted Von Barwig timidly. "One, two, three, four; yes, I want to meet him." Then he added almost savagely, "I must meet him!"
The lesson was interrupted by Denning.
"If you please, miss, will you come down in the library?"
"What is it, Denning?"
"Mr. Stanton wishes to see you at once, miss," said Denning in a low voice, so that Von Barwig could not hear.
"My father?" repeated Hélène. "Please don't go till I return, Herr Von Barwig," and Hélène left the music master alone.
Hélène found her father awaiting her in the library. His manner was excessively nervous. He seemed to be labouring under a strain.
"Sit down," he said briefly. His voice was harsh, his manner commanding. Hélène sat down. In front of Mr. Stanton lay a pile of letters. He pointed to them.
"Here are your letters to this man, and his letters to you. They were withheld by my orders."
"Then Joles," began Hélène.
"I am responsible, not Joles," he interrupted.
Hélène arose; the blood mounted to her face.
"Why have you done this?" she demanded.
"I wished to bring your association with this man to an end. I ordered him to be turned from the house, his letters kept from you and yours from him."
"But, father, why did you not come to me?" cried Hélène.
"Please don't interrupt me!" thundered Stanton. "I won't have that man in this house! Please understand that. Send for him, tell him you do not wish to continue your lessons, and dismiss him definitely, finally."
"Father, I cannot." Hélène could scarcely go on.
"You must, Hélène; you must," insisted Mr. Stanton.
"I cannot!" she repeated.
"You can say you have changed your mind."
"Impossible!"
"But I tell you you must! I won't have this man in my house again."
"What has he done? Tell me, what has he done?" demanded Hélène.
Stanton paused. "He—he is a scoundrel, a disgrace to society—to—to—" Then in sudden fury he went on: "When a man gets down to playing for a mere pittance, as he does, in a disreputable theatre, and dwelling in a squalid neighbourhood, with low companions——"
"Can he help his poverty?" interrupted Hélène, now thoroughly aroused. "The man has pride, he refuses to take money; he is a gentleman! You have no right to insult him because he is poor."
"There are other reasons," said Stanton quickly.
"What are they?"
Stanton was silent.
"What are they?" again demanded Hélène.
"It is enough that I know," replied Stanton. "It is enough for you to know that I know."
Hélène shook her head. "It is not enough," she said.
"If you don't tell him to go at once, you will force me to have him ordered from the house!"
"Father," Hélène was almost calm now. "Tell me, for God's sake, tell me what has he done?"
Stanton bit his lip with anger. The obstinacy of the girl was fast driving him to extremes. "He is not fit to be in this house," he almost shouted, "or to associate with gentlefolk."
"But he is so good, so gentle! How can I suddenly tell him to go? Father, I cannot believe that."
"You don't believe me? Has it come to a question of my word—your father's word against a stranger, a beggar! Do you know I can have the man put in prison?"
Hélène stopped suddenly; she was very quiet now. "Is it as bad as that?" she asked almost in a whisper. Stanton was silent. "Father, can you—put—him—in prison?"
Stanton felt that it was necessary to convince her.
"I think the situation speaks for itself," he said. He, too, was calm now, for he felt that he had to resort to extreme measures. "The man leaves his own country, where he is successful, and comes here, and lives with the lowest of the low. Would a man do that if he were not—afraid—or in danger?"
Hélène's heart sank.
"Don't say any more, don't please!" She felt that her father had good reasons for speaking as he did.
"If you had only told me before," she said plaintively; "if you had only confided in me it would have saved so much suffering. Why didn't you speak before, father?"
Stanton shook his head.
"Very well, you—you shall be obeyed, father." she said in a low voice. "I'll tell him that you——"
"No," he interrupted quickly. "No! I don't wish him to know that I'm in any way cognisant of his presence here. Simply dismiss him and let him go. Above all, make him understand that he is never to come here again."
Hélène nodded. "If his coming here is likely to endanger his liberty, he must not come," she thought Stanton thanked her, but she did not hear his words. Silently, sorrowfully, she returned to the music room, where she found Von Barwig awaiting her.
The old man looked up as she entered the room. She came toward him and looked at him a few moments in silence. The same tender, gentle smile that had so endeared him to her from the first was on his face. She could not bear to look at him, so she turned her gaze away and spoke without seeing him.
"Herr Von Barwig," she said, and then she paused. It was so hard, so very hard, to say what she had to say. He stood there expectantly, waiting for her to continue, as a little child looks up at the sound of its mother's voice.
"I'm very sorry," she said in a deep, low voice. "I—don't," still she hesitated, then finally, with much effort she said: "I cannot take any more lessons from you."
Von Barwig looked at her as if he did not comprehend her meaning.
"Not to-day, no, but to-morrow?"
Hélène shook her head.
"Ah, the next day!"
Again Hélène shook her head. "No," she said in an almost inaudible voice. Von Barwig noted that her face was sad, that her tone was low and mournful and his voice faltered as he asked, with his usual smile, "The day after that, perhaps?"
"No, Herr Von Barwig. I cannot take any more lessons from you."
"Cannot take any more lessons," he repeated mechanically; then as he realised her meaning he tried to speak, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. There was a long pause, during which neither of them spoke.
"You wish me no more at all?" he asked finally.
"I am very sorry, I am very grateful; believe me I am, Herr Von Barwig, but—" she shook her head rapidly. She could not trust herself to speak.
"I—do—not—understand," he said, and his voice was almost inaudible, for his heart was beating so furiously that he could feel its palpitation. She could only shake her head in reply. Von Barwig suddenly found his voice, for he was desperate now.
"A moment ago we were here, good friends, and—" suddenly an idea occurred to him. "Some one has told you that I played at the Museum, the Dime Museum. Ah, is that Indeed so terrible? I do not play there from choice, believe me, dear—dearFräulein! It is poverty."
"Yes, yes; I know, I know!" cried Hélène. She was nearly frantic now. "It is not your fault, but please, please, dear Herr Von Barwig, let us say no more! Good-bye," and she held out her hand, "good-bye! I hope better fortune may come to you."
"No better fortune can come if you—if you are not there," wailed Von Barwig. "You don't know—what I know; if you did you would realise that—" he paused. "I cannot stay away! It is simply impossible—I cannot!"
"You must," said Hélène firmly. "Please go! Don't you understand that it is as hard for me as it is for you?"
"Why do you so punish me?" pleaded Von Barwig. "For what? What have I done?"
"I am not punishing you, Herr Von Barwig. I— Don't ask me to explain! You must not call again. Please go; go! There, I've said it; I've said it!" cried Hélène in despair, and she walked to the window to hide her emotion.
Von Barwig looked at her in silence.
"Very well," he said after a few moments and then he looked around for his hat, which he always brought into the room with him.
He realised that it was useless to try and move her and he turned to go. He reached the door and had partly opened it when he felt impelled to make one more effort.
"I leave the Museum," he said at the door. "I go there no more."
Hélène shook her head. The old man came toward her.
"You must forgive me, Miss Hélène, I must speak," he said in a low voice choked with emotion; his English was very broken now. "A moment ago I was thinking what shall be best for you, for your future, your happiness; and I said to myself: 'Don't say that which will perhaps hurt her prospects, her future, her marriage with Herr Beverly Cruger!'"
"I don't understand," said Hélène in surprise. "What can you say, Herr Von Barwig, that will hurt my prospects or in any way affect my marriage with Mr. Cruger?"
"Ah, I don't know what I say," pleaded Von Barwig, who felt at that moment that for her sake he must not tell her who he was. "I don't know what I say! I am struck down; I cannot rise, I cannot think! Ah, don't discharge me, please don't discharge me!" wailed the old man pitifully. "Let me come here as I always do; don't send me away!"
Hélène was silent; she felt that she could say no more.
"It is the first time in my life I have ever begged of a living soul," pleaded Von Barwig, "and now I beg, I beg that you will not send me away! You have made me so happy, so happy, and now—please don't discharge me, don't discharge me!" It was all he seemed able to say.
Hélène was looking at him now, looking him full in the face while a great storm was surging in her mind. "I can't obey my father," she was saying to herself, I can't! It's too hard—too hard! The old man mistook her silence for the rejection of his prayer and slowly turned to go. The shrinking figure, the concentrated misery, the hopeless expression on his face, the tears in his eyes, the pathetic woebegone listlessness in his walk were too much for her; she could resist no longer.
"Herr Von Barwig," she cried, her voice ringing out in clear strong tones, "I don't believe it, I don't believe it!" He turned with a slight look of inquiry on his face and gazed at her through his tear-bedimmed eyes. "I don't believe that you ever did a dishonourable action in all your life," she cried. "My father is mistaken, mistaken! I'm sure of it."
"Your father?" There was no hesitation in his voice now. "Your father," he repeated, his voice rising higher. "Ah!" and a flood of light came in upon him. "When you left me a few moments ago, you went to him, and then, on your return—you—you sent me away; is it not so? Tell me," he demanded, "is it not so?"
Gone was the hopeless misery, gone were the shambling gait, the pathetic smile, the helplessness of resignation to overwhelming conditions. Gone, too, were the tears, the pleading look, and in their place stood Anton Von Barwig, erect and strong, his eyes glittering with fire, the fire of righteous indignation, his voice strong and clear. Hélène looked at him in amazement. She could not understand the transformation.
"Your father!" repeated Von Barwig in a loud, stern voice. "So! the time has come! I think perhaps I see your father. It is time we met; a little explanation is due. Miss Stanton, I shall see—your—father."
"Yes, you shall see him!" said the girl. "I'll—I'll speak to him for you; I am sure you can explain."
"Yes, I can explain," said Von Barwig with a low, hard laugh. "Where is he?"
"In the library," replied Hélène.
"Ah? Then I go there and see him," said Von Barwig in a decided tone. This new mental attitude of the music master amazed her. The little low, shambling figure was transformed into an overwhelming force.
"Perhaps I had better see him first," suggested Hélène.
"No," said Von Barwig. "I see him." His tone was almost commanding. Hélène looked at him in astonishment. She was pleased; at least these were not signs of guilt on his part. She no longer hesitated.
"Perhaps you're right," she said. "Come, we'll see him together."
Von Barwig followed Hélène through the corridors that led to the library. She paused a moment as she stood at the door and looked around at Von Barwig. There was a stern, cold, hard look in his face which was new to her. "He feels the injustice as I do," thought Hélène, "and he is angry. Thank God, he will be able to clear himself!" She turned the handle of the door and went in. Von Barwig followed her. Stanton was sitting at a desk table, writing, as they entered.
"There has been a mistake, father," she said.
Stanton looked up and started as if he had been struck. He saw his daughter, and he saw the man he had wronged standing there in the doorway like an avenging Nemesis. He tried to speak, but could not.
"What's the matter, father?" cried Hélène in alarm.
"Nothing—nothing!" replied Stanton incoherently. He was trembling in every limb.
"Hélène," he said, forcing himself to speak, "I will have a word with Herr Von Barwig alone."
"I beg your pardon for coming in unannounced, but we wanted to see you, father," began Hélène.
"Yes, yes; please excuse us now, Hélène. I'll see him alone," said Stanton, speaking with great difficulty. "Alone!" he repeated sharply.
Hélène turned and looked at Von Barwig. He stood there in silence, his slight figure seeming to tower above everything in the room. Even Stanton, tall as he was, seemed dwarfed by the strong personality of the music master. At this moment Joles made his appearance. "A number of ladies have arrived, miss," he said to Hélène, his quick eye catching sight of Von Barwig without looking at him. "They are in the reception-room."
"I must go at once," said Hélène. "I forgot all about my birthday reception."
"Young Mr. Cruger and his father are asking for you, sir," Joles said quietly to Mr. Stanton.
"Ask them to wait—I must see this gentleman," said Stanton, indicating Von Barwig. Joles bowed himself out. Hélène was pleased that her father acceded so readily to her wishes. She went to him and placing her hand on his arm said in a low voice:
"Let him explain, father! I want him to come back to me. It will make me very happy—please—this is my birthday."
Stanton nodded, but made no reply. Hélène gave Von Barwig an encouraging smile and went out of the room, quietly closing the door after her.
Von Barwig had been studying the man before him. There was quite a silence.
"Well, Henry?" he said after a few moments.
"Anton," murmured Stanton in a low tone as if ashamed to speak. Von Barwig's eyes glittered as he heard his name familiarly pronounced by the man he was regarding with deadly enmity.
"The world has revolved a few times since I last saw you—but I am here," he said, repressing his anger; and this repression gave a curiously hard and guttural effect to his voice.
"I have been expecting this moment for a long time," said Stanton in a conciliating tone. "I've tried to forget."
"You have been very successful," replied Von Barwig. "You have forgotten your own name for sixteen years. A prosperous friend has a poor memory, Henry."
"I have not prospered," said Stanton quickly; "that is, not in the real sense of the word. I am rich, yes; but I am not prosperous."
"You have changed your name?" said Von Barwig.
"Yes; my uncle Stanton died in California. I took his name when he left me his great fortune."
"That is why I could not find a trace of you," said Von Barwig thoughtfully.
Stanton thought he detected signs of relenting in Von Barwig's voice.
"I suppose there's no use my telling you how sorry I am for——"
"Sorry, sorry!" almost screamed Von Barwig. "Does that bring back anything? Does that put sixteen years in my hands? Damn the empty phrase 'I am sorry' when there is no use in being sorry!"
"I have repented, Anton! Before God I have repented!" said Stanton huskily. "She made me repent, and God knows she repented. She never had one happy hour since she left you!"
Von Barwig was silent.
"This is the only blot on my life—the one blot on my life," cried Stanton.
"And that one blot was my wife and child," said Von Barwig. "While you were at it you accomplished a great deal. Mein Gott, you were colossal! You always were a damned successful fellow, Ahlmann," he added vindictively.
"Before God, Anton," cried Stanton with a show of emotion, "I didn't mean to do it; I swear I didn't. It was a mad impulse! It's not in my real nature."
"Nature never makes a blunder. When she makes a scoundrel she means it," said Von Barwig.
Stanton started and then looked through the library window. His sharp ear had detected the sound of carriage wheels stopping in front of the house.
"What are you going to do?" he asked quickly. The fear of exposure was doubly increased by knowledge of the fact that his guests were arriving. Von Barwig made no reply.
"Barwig, for God's sake don't ruin me! At least, I've given the child everything. She knows nothing, and the world respects——"
"The world always respects a successful rascal," interrupted Von Barwig with a harsh laugh. "Of all people he is the most respected. Why, if I had not found you, I have no doubt you would live on a church window-pane after you died! But now I anticipate that everybody shall know your virtues while you are alive. I cut off that window-pane! I am going to baptise you, Ahlmann; I give you back your name."
"Anton, Anton! Why not sit down calmly and talk it over?" pleaded Stanton.
"Ah, you were always a polite man, the kind women like; a man born with kid gloves and no soul. Now we take off the gloves; we show you as you are," and Von Barwig shook his finger at the man opposite him.
There were echoes of laughter out in the hallway; Stanton heard them and trembled. He recognised the voices of Mrs. Cruger's nieces. If these gossips, ever found out the truth, he thought, not a family in New York but would be acquainted with the facts in twenty-four hours.
"Anton, be calm," he pleaded. "Give me a few days to think it over."
"No!" declared Von Barwig.
"A few hours," pleaded Stanton.
"No!" repeated Von Barwig; "not even a few minutes."
Stanton moved toward the door.
"Stay here!" commanded Von Barwig. He was plainly master of the situation now, for Stanton instinctively obeyed him. "If I let you go into the next room it might be sixteen years before you got back again! Sit down."
Stanton obeyed him and there was a slight pause.
"You know what a scandal this will make," he pleaded.
"I know," replied Von Barwig in a quiet tone. "I know!"
"The whole country will ring with it," said Stanton.
"You shouldn't have prayed so loud, Ahlmann," replied Von Barwig with a sardonic smile. "You laid too many cornerstones; your charities are too well known. You should have kept them a secret and not blazoned your generosity to the whole world. When you fed an orphan or a widow you shouldn't have advertised it in the newspapers."
Stanton looked at him and saw no hope.
"You're going to ruin me?" he asked.
Von Barwig made no reply.
"You're going to tell her?" demanded Stanton.
"Yes," replied Von Barwig in a quiet tone; "I'm going to tell her."
"You'd better think first."
"I have thought."
"How will you explain her mother's shame?"
"Ah!" Von Barwig glared at him in silence. "You will shield yourself behind the mother, eh?" he asked.
"How will you explain her mother's shame?" again asked Stanton.
"I don't explain it! You talked her mother's name away—now talk it back! You're a clever man with words. You'll find a way out of it, Ahlmann."
Stanton was now almost beside himself with fear and anger.
"What can you do for the girl after you have disgraced her? Think what I have done for her," pleaded Stanton. "She is honoured, respected, cultured, refined, a lady of social distinction. Are you going to drag her down to Houston Street, to the Bowery, to the Dime Museum?"
Von Barwig felt the force of this argument, and he knew there was no reply to be made. His anger was gone—he was thoughtful now.
Stanton saw that he was gaining ground. "For her sake, Von Barwig," he pleaded; "for her sake! Just think!"
Von Barwig interrupted him with a gesture, motioning him to silence.
"Look here, Ahlmann," his voice was strangely quiet now. "I knew! I knew an hour ago who you were, whose house I was in. As she sat at the piano near me I could have touched her with my hand. My heart cried out, 'I am her father; I am her father!' For sixteen years I wait for that moment and then I get it; I get it! It's mine; but I pass it! I put it aside; I would not tell her."
"You knew," interrupted Stanton, "and you did not speak!"
"I would have come here, to this house," went on Von Barwig, his voice quivering with excitement and emotion; "I would have come and gone as a friend, an old friend, if you had kept silent. But no, two fathers cannot live so with a child between them. One of them is bound to speak out and that one is you, you! You spoke. 'Twas you who said to your servants, 'Take this man and throw him into the streets like a dog.' 'Twas you who destroyed my letters; 'twas you who destroyed my child's letters—letters to me. 'Twas you who told my own flesh and blood to treat me as a dog—a dog! You made me plead and beg; you made me suffer for sixteen long and weary years. Now I take what is mine," screamed Von Barwig. "You hear! I take what is mine!" and he strode over to the bell and deliberately rang it.
"Don't, don't for heaven's sake!" shouted Stanton, trying to restrain him. It was too late and Stanton almost fell back into his chair.
"Come, stand up! To your feet, Ahlmann!" shouted Von Barwig in a loud voice. "I cannot throw you from your house as you would me; but I can empty it for you. Come! I want to introduce you to your friends." He threw the door wide open. Stanton came forward as if to close it, but Von Barwig waved him back. "Stay where you are," he cried. "I introduce yon to your friends as you are. She shall choose between us. Against your money and respectability I put my life. Your friends shall choose; she shall choose; the young man she is to marry—he shall choose." The old man was now almost incoherent. "I have her back! she is mine, she is mine!" At this juncture Joles entered.
"Speak; tell him!" shouted Von Barwig. "If you don't, I do!"
"Call Miss Stanton," said Mr. Stanton.
"And her friends," commanded Von Barwig.
Stanton nodded acquiescence; and Joles left the room.
"You've ruined me; and you'll ruin her," said Stanton in despair.
"I get her back, I get her back!" repeated Von Barwig over and over again. "She is mine."
"Very well! she is yours, then," replied Stanton in desperation. "Yours with this disgraceful scandal over her head."
"I don't care! She is mine—I get her back," was all Von Barwig could say.
"Yours with her engagement at an end, her heart broken! Yes, her heart broken! Do you think they'll take her into that family, do you think they will receive your daughter, the daughter of a——"
Von Barwig was now almost hysterical. "If they don't take her, I take her! If they don't want her, I want her. She's mine, I'm going to have her! I want my own flesh and blood. Do you hear, Ahlmann? I'm tired of waiting, tired of starving for the love of my own. I'm selfish, I'm selfish!" in his excitement the old man banged his clenched fist several times on the table. "I'm selfish! I want her, and by God I'm going to have her!" At this juncture Hélène came into the room. There was a dead silence. Von Barwig saw her and his clenched fist dropped harmlessly by his side. He stood there silently waiting. Hélène looked at Mr. Stanton; his head was bowed low and he uttered not a word. She looked inquiringly at Von Barwig. He seemed incapable of speaking.
"Father," she said in a low, gentle voice. Neither man answered. Stanton dared not, and Von Barwig steeled himself against telling her the truth. Stanton's words had had their effect; Von Barwig was unwilling to ruin the girl's chances for his own selfish interests.
"You have explained?" she asked Von Barwig. He nodded, but did not speak. The sound of approaching voices caught their ears. Joles threw open both doors and Mr. Cruger came into the room with his son and Mrs. Cruger, followed by many others. They greeted Mr. Stanton, who welcomed them as well as he could. In a few moments the conversation became general. Von Barwig stood apart from them. Mr. Stanton, nervous and anxious, watched him closely. Mrs. Cruger fastened a beautiful diamond pendant on Hélène's neck. Mr. Cruger kissed her.
"We cannot give you the wealth of your father, my dear child," said he; "but we can give you a name against which there has never been a breath; an honoured name, a name with which we are very proud to entrust you!"
Von Barwig heard this, and groaned aloud in his misery.
"I'm very happy, very happy!" said Hélène.
Others gathered around the happy pair and showered congratulations on them. After a short while Beverly saw Von Barwig in the corner of the room and went over and greeted him. Hélène joined them.
"Is it all arranged between you and father?" she asked.
Von Barwig nodded.
"I knew you could explain," said Hélène.
"Yes, he has let me explain!" said Von Barwig with a deep sigh. He was quite calm now. "Pardon the liberty I take—I—forgive me—" he placed Beverly's and Hélène's hands one in the other. "Pardon the liberty I take; I am an old man," he said in a low voice. "I wish you both—long life—much prosperity—much happiness—much joy to you both. God bless you, children; excuse me, I speak as a father. God bless you!" and the old man picked his hat up from the table on which he had deposited it and wiped away the tears that were coursing down his cheeks. Stanton, who had been watching him closely, uttered a cry of joy. Von Barwig went out of the room slowly, shutting the door behind him.
It was midwinter nearly a year later. The cold was the severest in the memory of any inmate of the Houston Street establishment, including Miss Husted herself. Everything was frozen solid. It was nearly as cold inside the house as it was outside, greatly to Miss Husted's dismay, for added to the increased expenditure for coal, the services of the plumber to thaw out frozen water and gas pipes were in constant requisition. Houston Mansion was a corner house with an open space next door, and the biting north winds on three sides of the unprotected old walls added greatly to the discomfort and suffering of the "guests" within. In every sense it was a record breaker. There had already been three blizzards in the past month and a fourth was now in progress. It was on the top floor, however, that the extreme severity of the winter was felt. The cold biting winds howled and wailed over the roof, circling around the skylight and forcing their way through the cracked and broken panes of glass. It was impossible to keep the draughty old hallway warm with the one small stove intended for that purpose. Pinac, Fico and Poons, huddled together around the fire bundled up in their overcoats, had to place their feet on the stove to keep them warm or blow on their fingers and walk about the room to keep their blood in circulation.
At this time Pinac and Fico were playing at Galazatti's for their dinners, being unable to obtain more profitable engagements, and Poons was playing in an uptown theatre. Poons was trying to save enough money to get married, and neither Pinac nor Fico would touch a penny of his earnings, although the boy generously offered them all or any part of his savings to help them tide over until the Spring, when they were reasonably sure of obtaining lucrative engagements. The men had just finished their breakfast and Jenny was washing the dishes for them.
"I shall lay a cloth for the breakfast of Von Barwig when he shall wake up," said Pinac, suiting the action to the word and spreading a red tablecloth on the rickety wooden table. "His work at the Museum keeps him so late he must sleep late."
"Sacoroto, the rotten museum he play at, I wish it was dead," growled Fico.
They knew now that Von Barwig played at a cheap amusement resort on the Bowery, and that it kept him out till early morning; and they loved him for it all the more. They knew that necessity, not choice, had driven him to it. Besides, it made them more akin to him, for it brought him nearer their own artistic standard, and yet they did not lose one atom of respect for the old man. Gone was his commanding spirit, and in its place was a quiet, gentle dignity which called forth respect as well as love; but above all—love.
"He is sleeping later than usual," said Jenny as she restored the crockery to its proper place in the cupboard.
"All the strength of the coffee will boil away," murmured Fico.
"Parbleu! we make new coffee for him," replied Pinac.
"He have sleep long enough. I call him," said Fico, tapping lightly on the door of the lumber room that served Von Barwig as a bedroom. Receiving no reply, Fico knocked louder. Finally he pushed open the door. It had no lock on it and the catch was broken. Fico looked into the room, shook his head and then turned and stared at his friends. "He have gone up," he said with an anxious look. "You mean he have get up," suggested Pinac. "Got up!" corrected Jenny. "Yes," replied Fico. "He is got up and out."
Poons, who had not quite followed the intricacies of the conversation, went into Von Barwig's room and satisfied himself that his beloved friend was not there. The three men stared at each other. They said nothing, but the expression on their faces denoted anxiety. "Where has he gone?" seemed to be the question each asked silently of the other.
Von Barwig had been very quiet in the past year, so quiet that his actions seemed to his friends to be almost mysterious. Not that he was more reserved than usual, but there was a calmness, a resignation to existing conditions, a listlessness that seemed to them to amount to almost a lack of interest in life, and this mental attitude on Von Barwig's part caused them no little anxiety.
"It's such an awful day," said Pinac as he looked out of the window.
"By God, yes!" assented Fico. "Another bliz."
The wind was howling up and down the streets and flurries of snow were being driven against the windows, banging the shutters to and fro as the great gusts of wind caught them in their grasp. The iron catch that held the shutter had long since been torn out by the winter blizzards, and the constant banging sound grated harshly on the sensitive ears of the musicians. Poons suffered more than the rest, and swore roundly in German every time the shutter struck against the window jamb.
"Jenny," came the shrill voice of Miss Husted up the stairway at the back of the hall. That lady was more than ever set against her niece's "taking up with a musician," as she called the love match between Poons and Jenny. Whenever Miss Husted missed Jenny on the floors below she invariably found her upstairs talking to young August.
"We were looking for the professor," said Jenny, as her aunt's head came up into view from the staircase below.
"Looking for the professor! Why, where is he?" asked Miss Husted. "Surely he hasn't gone out on a day like this! Why, it's not fit for a dog; not fit for a dog! Oh dear, dear! I'll be worried to death till he comes back," and Miss Husted pressed Skippy more closely to her and went down stairs again; not, however, without first sending Jenny to the floor below, out of the reach of Poons's love-making eyes.
"It is true; he has gone out," said Pinac dolefully, as he looked out of the window at the blizzard.
Von Barwig had risen very early that morning and dressed himself with more than his usual care. He had much to do, for on the morrow he was to depart from the shores of America and return to his old home. He was going back to Leipsic, and the steamship sailed very early the next morning. The real cause of his absence at that moment was the fact that his daughter Hélène was to be married that day, and he desired to witness the ceremony. Altogether, there was much to be done and little time to do it in. He had told Mr. Costello the night before that he was not going to return to the Museum; so that was ended, and his few clothes were packed in his little portmanteau with the assistance of Jenny, who was the only one who knew his secret. He also had to go downtown and buy his steamship ticket and make arrangements with an expressman to take his trunk, and he felt he must say good-bye to a few acquaintances before he went away forever. So, in order to complete all these arrangements in time to get to the church where the wedding was to take place, he had to get up quite early.
Von Barwig did not mind the cold weather at all. He trudged along the streets and stamped his feet to keep them warm while he brushed the snow off his face as it blew under his umbrella. His heart was light, for he rejoiced that his darling Hélène was going to marry the man she loved. Her happiness was assured, he thought; besides, he himself was going to do something. He had a plan of action and he was going to carry it out. During the last few months he had had a great yearning to see his old home again, to hear his native language spoken, to hear the folk songs and familiar German airs sung once more and to look upon the faces of his fellow-countrymen again. Now that he knew his child was happy, he felt that he would be content simply to sit placidly in an obscure corner of the market-place in Leipsic, and watch the ebb and flow of life as it is lived over there in the beloved Fatherland. He did not ask to take part in it or to be one with his countrymen; all he asked was the privilege of watching their life for the few remaining years of his earthly existence. His pride had completely gone now, and it caused him not one pang to feel that he had left his native land in the flush and prime of success and was going to return an old, broken-down failure. On the contrary, the thought of again walking the streets of his native land, breathing the atmosphere, and hearing the voices of his beloved countrymen so lightened his heart that his steps were almost elastic. He kicked the snow aside with vigour, and jumped on the street car as if he were a boy. He saluted the conductor with such a hearty good-morning, that the man looked at him in astonishment.
"You must be feeling pretty good to call this a good morning," said that functionary, as he collected his fare.
"Back of this awful blizzard is the beautiful sunshine," said Von Barwig, with a smile.
"Yes, if you can see it!" replied the man, compelled to smile when he looked into Von Barwig's beaming face. "How far are you going downtown?" asked the conductor to prolong the conversation. The car was empty, and Von Barwig's cheery smile encouraged him to talk.
"Fowling Green," replied Von Barwig. "I buy my ticket back to Germany," he added lightly.
"Ah!" said the man, as if that explained everything. "You're glad to go back, eh? Most of 'em would never have come if they knew what they were going to get over here."
Von Barwig shrugged his shoulders and laughed a little.
"If you don't strike it right," went on the car conductor, "it's worse here than anywhere in the world!" Von Barwig nodded. "There's no room in America for the man who fails," he added, ringing up a fare with an angry jerk and then relapsing into moody silence.
After many delays, owing to the packing of the snow on the car tracks, Von Barwig arrived at the steamship office, bought his ticket, and commenced his weary journey uptown.
"I shall see her to-day," he thought. "I shall see her. How beautiful she will look in her white dress and her orange blossoms! He—he—will give her to her husband. That scoundrel!" Von Barwig's heart sank. "But she is happy, she is happy!" and this thought sustained him.