Whatever Andrew Cruger may have thought in his inner consciousness on the subject of his son's engagement to Hélène Stanton, he outwardly showed no sign that he was not well pleased. He simply gave the consent that Beverly asked of him, and accepted the new condition as another event in the continuity of life. "Of course there can be no formal engagement until her father returns from Europe," said he.
"Can't we get his consent by cable?" asked his son.
"I don't believe in these irregularities," said the elder Cruger, whose diplomatic training had made him something of a stickler for formality and precedent. "There will be time enough for that when he returns."
Beverly submitted without another word, for he felt that his father had already given way to him a good deal. The young people did not cable to Mr. Stanton for his consent, for all agreed that there would be time enough to acquaint him with the fact when he returned. Whatever Mr. Cruger's mental attitude toward the engagement might have been his manner toward Hélène was most cordial. As for Beverly's mother, she was delighted beyond all words.
"The dear, dear girl, how I shall love her!" she said to Beverly, on hearing the news. And after she had showered mother kisses, plentifully mixed with mother tears, on them both, her happiness was well-nigh complete.
That afternoon the Crugers were to make a formal call on Hélène. Andrew Cruger had finally yielded to his son's entreaties and consented to call on her, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Stanton was still in Europe and his formal consent had not been obtained.
"I have been looking forward to the day when I should see my son's wife," said the elder Cruger, somewhat pompously to Hélène, as he greeted her with outstretched hand. He could never get over the idea that formalism was the soul of function.
"I have always felt that I would demand a great deal of her," went on Mr. Cruger, in his best after-dinner manner. "I thank you for giving me everything I could desire! You are the daughter of a man whose charity and beneficence we all respect and admire, and—" Here he paused to take breath.
"Thank you," said Hélène simply. She was surprised that he did not kiss her instead of making a formal speech.
"I know that father means what he says," remarked Beverly to his mother; "but I do wish he would say it in a less stereotyped manner."
"Hush!" replied his mother, "your father is speaking again."
"I want your married life to begin auspiciously," continued the elder Cruger, as if he had not been interrupted. "So I have made what I consider to be a sacrifice for you. I had hoped to retire from public life, but I have altered my decision. I shall again represent my country in a foreign land."
Hélène gratefully acknowledged the sacrifice, although she did not quite see where it came in. She had heard that most American representatives at foreign courts managed rather to enjoy life than otherwise.
"When I go abroad as hostess in the Embassy that Mr. Cruger represents," Mrs. Cruger said, taking up the thread of the conversation, "I want my son's wife to share my honours. A sweet young woman, far younger than I, is almost a—a—"
"A charming necessity," added Mr. Cruger, who made it a habit to finish his wife's sentences.
"Yes, a charming necessity," echoed his wife, and, then she continued:
"The fact that Octavie is engaged suggests a double wedding. They will marry in June, if the weather is good."
"What has the weather to do with Octavie's wedding?" inquired Mr. Cruger.
"Simply that it's an automobile wedding, Andrew," replied his wife.
Mr. Cruger looked almost pained. "Permit me to remark, Mary, that no Cruger was ever married in an automobile and I trust that no Cruger will so far forget himself or herself as to establish so ridiculous a precedent."
"The motor business comes in after the wedding, father; at least so Octavie said," whispered Beverly.
"Your niece is very frivolous," remarked Mr. Cruger to his wife. "I shall take pains to remind her that we Crugers marry quietly in Trinity!"
Hélène laughed aloud. The idea of Octavie doing anything quietly appealed to her sense of humour.
"She does not take us very seriously," thought Mr. Cruger. Mrs. Cruger glanced at her husband and noticed a rather injured expression appear upon his face. Evidently he was not highly pleased at Hélène's levity.
"You have written to your father?" Mr. Cruger asked her presently.
"No, Mr. Cruger," replied Hélène after a pause.
"No, my dear?" echoed Mr. Cruger in surprise.
"I will tell him when he returns," said Hélène.
Mr. Cruger was almost dismayed. "You have not written to your father?" he repeated. "My dear Hélène, these formalities must be complied with! Your father's consent is of the utmost importance. Not that I anticipate any—er—opposition from that quarter, but it's merely the idea of the thing! Of course, I am somewhat old-fashioned, I admit."
"In France, for instance, it is against the law," interrupted Beverly in a satirical tone.
Hélène smiled. Her prospective father-in-law appeared to her somewhat punctilious, but she determined to humour him.
"Your father is quite right, Beverly," she said. "I should have cabled at once."
At this moment Joles entered, apparently somewhat nervous. "Mr. Von Barwig is here, miss," he explained. "I told him you were engaged, but——"
"Ask him to come up, Joles." Joles was surprised, but being a well-trained servant, his face gave no outward indication of his feelings.
"It is my music master, Mrs. Cruger. I think this is a splendid opportunity for you to see him about your niece's music lessons." Mr. Cruger looked almost shocked. A music master invited to take part in a family function! Such conduct savoured of socialism, and socialism did not appeal to him.
"Herr Von Barwig is a most exceptionable person," said Hélène, quite unconscious of the thought her words had aroused in her prospective father-in-law.
"Von Barwig? Von Barwig?" repeated Mr. Cruger, apparently interested in the name. "Don't I know that name? It seems quite familiar. A music master, you say? Yes, it seems to me that I do know it!"
"He's one of the dearest old chaps I ever met," broke in Beverly, "such a gentle creature, a most excellent musician, but rather unfortunate."
"I know the name quite well, but if it's the man I mean it's impossible that it can be the same. He was a fine musician, from Dresden I think. Was it Dresden?" he asked himself, as if annoyed that his memory had played him false. "It must have been Dresden or Leipsic."
"Herr Von Barwig," announced Joles, in his most formal and freezing manner.
Poor old Von Barwig came into the room expecting to see no one but Hélène, and was painfully astounded to see so many strangers. He wore his old broadcloth suit; it was well brushed, but more shiny than ever. Poons had carefully brushed it for him that morning and it was more than scrupulously clean. His gloves were old, but Jenny had mended up the holes the night before, so he looked even neater and more genteel than usual this afternoon. He carried the cheap little bunch of violets, wrapped in paper, in one hand and his hat in the other, for Joles had never been able to persuade him to leave it in the hall. He stood by the door, as close as he could get to it, as if afraid to come in, and then bowed low to Hélène and the others. There he waited with timid dignity, uncertain as to what he should do next. There was a dead silence for a few moments.
"I'm so glad to see you," said Hélène in an affectionate tone, coming to the rescue; and taking him warmly by the hand she led him away from the door into the middle of the room.
"Glad to meet you again, Herr Von Barwig," said Beverly, coming forward, and shaking hands with him far more cordially than the occasion called for. He then introduced Von Barwig to his mother and father. The elder Cruger looked at him very closely.
"It seems to me that we have met before, sir. Your face is very familiar. Yes, yes; Prince Holberg Meckstein introduced me to you at one of your concerts."
"Holberg Meckstein," repeated Von Barwig in a frightened voice. "Yes, I—I knew him; but—but—I—forgive me, I—I do not remember!"
"It was in Leipsic; oh, it must be fifteen years ago!" said Mr. Cruger. "At that time I had the United States Embassy at Berlin. Surely, you must remember! You became nervous that night while conducting your own symphony, and you fainted away right before the audience. Don't you remember?"
"I remember," said Von Barwig, in a low hoarse voice, which he controlled with great difficulty.
"And then a few months later you made some inquiries at the Embassy for me," went on Mr. Cruger, "but I was unfortunately not there at the time, and so was unable to be of service to you. You had some mission, some object in going to America, the Secretary of Legation said. You wanted a list of all the large towns in the United States. I hope you were successful in finding what you were searching for?"
"No, sir, I did not accomplish—my mission," replied Von Barwig, who had gained command of himself to some extent, and could speak without giving evidence of his emotion. "It is extremely kind of you to remember me!" His retiring, bashful manner was somewhat disconcerting, but beneath it there was the unmistakable evidence of birth, breeding and dignity.
"I am glad to find you in the house of such a distinguished citizen of the United States as Mr. Stanton," said Mr. Cruger at parting with Von Barwig.
"Ah, you know him, her father! He is a distinguished citizen?" said Von Barwig, and the last ray of hope died within him. "He is a distinguished citizen," he said to himself, "and he is her father." He sighed deeply, and reproached himself for ever having hoped.
"That old man has a history," thought the elder Cruger, as he went up to Hélène, intent on saying good-bye to her. Joles had announced his wife's nieces, and he did not care to stay longer. He had done his duty by Beverly and that was all that was necessary. As he shook hands warmly with Hélène, he said to her:
"I should like to see Herr Von Barwig again."
Hélène squeezed his hand warmly; it was the first note of affection that had been sounded between them.
"Let me know if I can be of any service to him," he said.
"I will, I promise you I will," replied Hélène, and Mr. Cruger took his departure, accompanied by his son.
The girls were introduced to Herr Von Barwig. "And this is Hélène's romance," thought Octavie, as she looked at Von Barwig and laughed aloud. Von Barwig thought she was a very pleasant young lady, and smiled back in return.
"I should like Charlotte to study for the next two years, Herr Von Barwig, and Octavie till about June," said Mrs. Cruger, who was determined to get Herr Von Barwig to teach her nieces, since Hélène had recommended him so highly.
"I don't want to study at all," said Octavie. "Who ever heard of an engaged girl studying?"
"And pray, am I not an engaged girl, as you call it?" asked Hélène, who was pouring out tea. "And do I not study?"
"Yes, but you're an accomplished musician and——"
"One lump or two, Herr Von Barwig?" broke in Hélène, to change the conversation.
"No lumps! Yes, thank you, I take one," said Von Barwig, somewhat confused by the incessant chatter of the young ladies, who smiled at his awkwardness.
"Cake, Herr Von Barwig?" Hélène held out the dish to her music master.
"No, thank you," he replied quietly, and then catching an appealing look from her, he took a cake, and then another.
"The idea of waiting on a music master," whispered Octavie to Charlotte; "she'll spoil him."
"She's a socialist," said Charlotte.
"Come, girls, tell Herr Von Barwig what you know. If he can teach such a finished pianist as Hélène, I am determined that you shall have the advantage of his tutelage."
"A finished musician?" thought Von Barwig. "Heaven save us! You have had lessons before?" he continued to ask one of the gay young ladies. "You have studied a great deal, yes?"
"We've had lots of lessons," replied Octavie, "but I don't think we've studied; at least I haven't!" she confessed.
"Don't count on me! I know nothing; absolutely nothing!" volunteered Charlotte.
"Well," said Von Barwig sententiously, "that is something at all events! Many musicians take years to discover that."
"I only want to know enough to do a few stunts," said Charlotte to him gaily.
Von Barwig's face fell. "Stunts! they do not love music," he thought, "they want to do tricks." And then the girls talked on the subject of musical comedies, popular songs and dance music, until their aunt interrupted them.
"Come, Charlotte," said the excellent Mrs. Cruger. She thought her nieces had had time to prevail on the eminent professor to take them. "Remember your appointment at the museum."
Von Barwig, in the act of drinking tea, nearly choked. He thought of his Dime Museum. "If they should ever dream of such a thing!"
"My drawing master is meeting me at the Museum of Art," explained Charlotte to Von Barwig.
"Will you play something before you go?" asked Von Barwig. Charlotte went to the piano and banged out a two-step march that was the raging popular tune of the day.
"Ah, that is the stunt! Now, if you will play some music," ventured Von Barwig, "I can just tell you where you are."
"Isn't that music?" asked Charlotte.
"It is rhythm and jingle—a stunt as you call it. Real musicians do not write such things."
"Isn't there a method of learning how to play without practising?" broke in Octavie.
"From nothing comes nothing," said Von Barwig with a sigh.
"Quite true," assented Mrs. Cruger.
"Some day," said Von Barwig prophetically, "some day they will invent a machine that will play itself. All you will have to do is to pump a bellows, or turn a wheel and the music will play itself! You will see; there is so much demand for it, some one will rise to the occasion."
"Splendid!" said Charlotte. "Won't that save lots of hard work!"
"We'll write and make an appointment; Hélène will give us the address," said Octavie, as they said good-bye to Von Barwig.
"Thank you so much, Herr Professor, for your patience and courtesy," said Mrs. Cruger at parting.
Herr Von Barwig bowed. The girls accompanied by their aunt took their leave, and he was left alone with Hélène. He took the paper from the little bunch of violets he had brought with him, and handed them to her.
"Ah, thank you so much! But why do you always bring me flowers?"
"Why do we love the light?" he asked. "Because it gives us joy."
She took an orchid she was wearing and tried to pin it on his coat. "I am afraid," said Von Barwig, "that it is healed up!" Hélène laughed.
"What a curious expression!" she said. Then she walked up to the window and looked out.
"Shall we begin where we left off?" asked Von Barwig as he opened the music. He had been waiting some time for her to come to the piano.
"You like him, don't you?" said Hélène in a low voice.
"The young Herr Cruger?" asked Von Barwig. Then without waiting for an answer he went on: "Yes, he has a fine noble heart. He is different to the young men here; quite different."
"I am glad you like him!"
"Why?"
"I don't know. I am glad, that's all!"
At that moment Von Barwig was supremely happy. Neither of them spoke for a few moments.
"Shall we not begin?" he said, breaking the silence.
Hélène walked slowly to the piano and sat down.
At that moment Joles entered the room with a message for Miss Stanton.
"Put it down, Joles," she said, striking a note here and there on the piano.
"It's a telegram, miss."
"Oh! bring it to me, then." He obeyed. She opened it and read:
"Left Paris this morning en route to New York.FATHER."
A feeling of dread crept over her; the smile on her face gave way to a hardness of expression. Gone was the joy, the happiness, in the girl's face, and in its place was doubt, apprehension, anxiety.
Von Barwig looked at her; the keen eye of love quickly detected the presence of fear. He did not speak, but his look demanded an answer to its question.
"My father is coming home," she said, forcing herself to smile.
"Ah? So? I shall be glad to meet him," said Von Barwig.
Henry Stanton's return to New York was not marked by any special outburst of joy on the part of the large retinue of dependents that constituted the machinery of his household. He was feared rather than loved by his servants, and this feeling, as has been indicated, was shared by his daughter in common with others. It was not that he did not want to be loved, or that he was indifferent to the feelings and opinion of others concerning him. On the contrary, he, of all men, was most anxious that others should think well of him. But his manner was stern, harsh and repellent, and he did not seem to have the capacity to gain the confidence or sympathy of those around him. Although generous even to extravagance where it gratified his vanity, of broad-minded charity in its higher and nobler sense the man knew nothing. He gave not because he loved, but because his charities reflected lustre on his name; and here was the man's most vulnerable point, his sensitiveness as to name, fame, honour, reputation dignity, public opinion. "What will the world think?" stood out in blazing letters on a glittering signpost pointing to the motive of all he did. And so when Mr. Stanton told his daughter, the day after his arrival, that he approved of her engagement to Beverly Cruger and that it gave him great happiness, the utter absence of genuine fatherly tenderness in his manner showed the girl plainly that his happiness was brought about mainly by the fact that it advanced him several rungs in the social ladder, and not because she was going to marry a man who would make her happy.
"He is a splendid catch," were Mr. Stanton's words on first hearing the news. "He belongs to a fine solid family and you will haveentréeinto the first establishments in America and Europe."
Hélène was instinctively repelled by the manner of his congratulations. Not one solitary word was uttered as to love, happiness, or the sacred nature of marriage itself, not a regret at parting with her; nothing but an adding up of the advantages that would accrue to him from a social point of view.
"The Van Nesses and the de Morelles can't refuse to meet us now. We can snap our fingers at them! Bravo, my girl, you have achieved a splendid victory. They can't dig up hidden and dead scandals now."
Hélène had never known that the Van Nesses and the de Morelles had refused to meet them. She knew that several of the historic New York families did not make it a point to ask them to their functions, but she had always thought it was because her father was personally unpopular with the more exclusive set. His reference to hidden and dead scandals she did not in the least understand, for she had heard nothing.
"At a moment like this," Hélène thought, "if he had only opened his heart, if he would only let me love him!" But no, he had not shown the slightest encouragement, not a particle of sentiment.
"With your husband's people and my money back of you," he said, "you ought to become a leader, nothing less than a leader! I'd give half a million to see you take Julia Van Ness's place."
Hélène was disappointed. "Oh, father, please don't speak of those things now! It's not a question of social advantage. It's my whole future happiness; my whole life itself is Involved."
"Do you know, Hélène, you are rather selfish in your love affair as I suppose you call it," cried Mr. Stanton angrily. "My ambition is for you, not for myself."
"I have no ambition," said Hélène, stifling a tendency to burst into tears, "that is, no social ambition. I love my friends and they love me. Indeed, father, I have no desire to extend my circle of acquaintances; I can't do justice to those I know now! If it is for my sake you are trying to——"
At these words Mr. Stanton completely lost his temper. "Of course it is for your sake, don't you believe me when I say so? Please remember that I am your father, and it is your duty to believe me whether my statement convinces you or not. It is your duty to believe me and to love me!"
"God knows I try hard enough," broke from the girl, and now she too lost control of herself. "I hate myself for saying it, but it's true, father, it's true! I don't seem to love you, not as most girls love their fathers, and I want to, I do so want to! You believe that, don't you, father?"
Mr. Stanton was silent, and Hélène went on: "I always feel that there is something between us. I think of myself only as one of your possessions. You were so good, so gentle to mother; why aren't you more kind, more loving to me?"
"Is there anything you want that you do not get?" demanded Mr. Stanton.
"Yes," cried Hélène, "there is love, love! I do not get it! Your manner is cold, hard, repellent!"
"How dare you!" shouted her father.
"I repeat it!" cried Hélène, now utterly regardless of consequences. "Something in you repels me. I came to you this morning with the news of my engagement of marriage. I came to you with earnest longing to have you take me into your arms and kiss me, to have you congratulate me on my happiness. Instead of this you repelled me with cold calculations as to the effect the marriage would have on your own social position. Oh, father, father! is that the way to sympathise with a girl? I have no mother; you should supply her place. All the luxuries in this palace don't make up to me for the lack of love I find in it."
"Is it my fault that your mother died when you were eight years old?" said Mr. Stanton in a milder tone. The reference to his dead wife had had a softening influence upon him.
"No, no, father; no, no! I can't help thinking of her now, that's all! I need her now, so much. I have no one to go to but you, and—" the girl shook her head helplessly. "I can just remember her, so delicate, so beautiful! She was an angel, wasn't she?"
He nodded assent. "I remember that she was always in tears, always afraid to go out in the streets, afraid to be seen," said Hélène somewhat irrelevantly. "You did love her, didn't you? I always feel you did! Why, why can't you love me as you did her? Why am I not as near to you as she was? Your own flesh and blood should be very near and very dear to you; especially at such a time as this."
He regarded her more tenderly. "You are near me," he said and kissed her. "Poor little thing," he muttered to himself. "I suppose I am selfish," he said aloud, "but you'll have my money some day. Surely that should give you a great deal of comfort!"
Hélène smiled sadly. Her father seemed incapable of understanding her. She could only shake her head and say, "That's nothing, nothing!"
"You'll find it a great deal, my girl," he said.
That afternoon when her music master came he was astonished to find her pensive and downcast instead of joyful and happy, as he expected. "There has been a lovers' quarrel," he said to himself. "Little missie wanted her way and young master wanted his. It is nothing," he decided, as he opened the music books.
"Have you studied your lesson?" he asked.
"No," replied Hélène, without thinking.
"Well, do the best you can," he said. To his utter astonishment she played the whole exercise through without looking at the music, without any effort and without playing a single false note.
To say that Von Barwig was astounded is putting it mildly. He simply gasped for breath.
"Gott in Himmel, Fräulein! Ach, du lieber Gott! what style, what touch, what progress! Ah," and then it came to him all at once, "your father has come back; you want to show him progress, is it not? You have practised on the sly, eh? Ah—" and he shook his finger reproachfully at her.
Hélène looked at him and laughed. "If father was only like you," she thought.
"Yes," she said aloud. "I suppose I wanted to show my father the progress I have made, so I practised on the sly."
"Let us continue," said Von Barwig, who was now very anxious to see what new surprise his pupil was going to give him.
"Have you arranged with Mrs. Cruger about giving her nieces lessons?" asked Hélène, carelessly striking a few chords on the piano.
"Not yet," replied Von Barwig, "I am to go next week." Then he added with a little laugh, "The young ladies postpone me as long as possible."
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of Denning, the under-butler, who informed Miss Stanton that her father wished to see her in the library. Von Barwig saw a downcast expression on Hélène's face as she left the room. "Perhaps he does not approve of the marriage, this Mr. Stanton. Well, I do!" he said with emphasis. "I do, and I am determined that she shall marry the man of her choice. He is a splendid fellow, fully worthy of her. If this father interferes, I shall— Let me see, what shall I do?"
Von Barwig laughed at his own foolishness in allowing his thoughts to run on unchecked. Somehow they always led him into a ridiculous position from which he could never extricate himself.
"I shall tell this father," he went on in a more compromising vein of thought, "I shall tell him that his daughter's happiness is at stake, and that he must not allow personal considerations to interfere with that happiness. Then he will have me flung out of his house. No, thank you, Barwig, you will not speak; but none the less that is what I think! Her happiness first, last and all the time. Let me tell you a secret, Mr. Stanton," said Von Barwig mentally. His thoughts rushed him along pell-mell now and he followed them, thoroughly enjoying the mental pictures they brought up. "Let me tell you my secret, Mr. Stanton! She is my daughter as well as yours. I have adopted her. She does not know it, nor do you, but I do! She has taken the place of my own little one and I love her, Mr. Stanton. I love her just as much, aye, even more than you do, sir, and this love gives me the right to speak. You shall not interfere with her happiness! Do you hear me, sir?"
Von Barwig had now lashed himself into a whirlwind of imaginary indignation and was pacing up and down the music room; his thoughts completely engrossing him. They were the only realities in life to him now, these thoughts, and he treasured them as philosophers do the truths of existence. All at once his eye caught a pile of music that lay on the table next to Miss Stanton's dolls' cabinet in the corner of the room opposite the piano. He observed the Beethoven Concerto for pianoforte which had Hélène Stanton's name on it, also the C Minor and F Minor concertos of Chopin, besides other compositions for pianoforte of an exceedingly difficult character; all this music was marked with her name and the date.
"There must be some mistake," he thought, as he read the names. "She cannot play these difficult compositions, surely! It may be her mother had played them, but no, they are dated within a year or so of the present day!"
Everything was explained to him now. He was no longer surprised at the unaccountable unevenness of her playing. She had deceived him. "Why, why?" he wondered.
Then it came to him. "Of course! Fool, dolt, idiot! she wanted to benefit you, so she pretends she cannot play and takes lessons she does not need. But why should she wish to befriend you, why?"
Von Barwig was silent a long time. "Why, why?" he kept asking himself and his thoughts could get no further. "Am I dreaming?" He looked around. "Is it all a dream? Do I merely believe these things happen, or are they real? Sometimes these people seem like phantoms of the past; phantoms that come and vanish like the thoughts that give them existence. There seems to be no substance in them. But real or phantom, dreaming or waking, my love for her is real. That is God's truth! I feel it, I know it! I love her, I love her! Of that alone I am certain. That is truth, if nothing else is!"
In the meantime, Hélène found her father awaiting her in the library. Mr. Stanton was in very excellent spirits.
"Why did you trouble to come down, my dear child? I intended to come up and see you," he said as she entered the door. "I told Denning to find out if you could receive me; servants are so stupid!"
"Oh, it doesn't matter! I was only taking a music lesson."
"Yes, so Denning said. I didn't know you'd taken up your musical studies again," and then before Hélène could reply, he went on:
"Sit down, my dear, I want to ask, no, not ask; I want to make a suggestion. I want you to do something for my sake. The spring has fairly set in; in a few weeks it will be summer, and I may want to go abroad again. Can you arrange to have your marriage take place late in June or early in July?"
"No, father!" replied Hélène in a somewhat decided tone. "I am sorry," she added quickly, as she saw an expression of disappointment in his face.
"Why not, may I ask?" inquired her father.
"Because Beverly is engaged in Washington at the State Department. The secretary has promised him an under-secretaryship in one of the European embassies if his work there is satisfactory, and our marriage would interrupt his work."
"Not necessarily," said Mr. Stanton. "Besides he doesn't need any career! He will have plenty of money, and——"
"I don't think all the money in the world would be sufficient to support Beverly Cruger in idleness," responded Hélène with some spirit. "The Crugers are not well off, and he refuses to accept anything from his father; and as for living on my income, it's out of the question, father! He insists on earning his own living and working out his own career."
"Well, after all, that shows a good spirit," said Mr. Stanton, "but I really don't see how an early marriage would interfere with his resolutions on that point. He could go on working."
"His income is insufficient just at present," said Hélène, "and it will be until next year. The marriage cannot take place till then. I am sorry."
"Some time next winter, eh? That's a long time, Hélène; so many things may happen," said Mr. Stanton thoughtfully.
"What could happen?" asked Hélène in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know; I'm nervous and apprehensive. I want to see you married and settled," replied her father almost peevishly, as if he didn't want to go into explanations. "I've a curious notion that I want to see you married and settled. It's a—a—my anxiety for you, Hélène," added Mr. Stanton, forcing a smile.
"You're very kind," repeated Hélène. She did not understand her father in the least. He seemed to be afraid of something, his manner was distinctly apprehensive. She moved slowly toward the door, deep in thought.
"Are you going?" asked Mr. Stanton.
"My music master is waiting for me," replied Hélène.
"Your music master? Oh, yes, you said you'd taken up your studies again."
Hélène smiled. "You can hardly call it taking up my studies," she said. "Herr Von Barwig just—so to speak—goes over; I hardly know how to describe it. I think he tries to improve my technique."
Was it imagination or had her father turned ashen pale? He looked at her, barely able to speak; he seemed to have received an awful shock and he was gasping for breath. What had happened? There was a pause during which Hélène wondered why she had not noticed before how pale and ill her father looked, and how his hands trembled.
"What did you say was his name?" asked Mr. Stanton, barely able to repress the emotion in his voice.
"Professor Von Barwig. Oh, he's not known here as well as he was in Germany! What's the matter, father?" she cried out as the man almost tottered into his chair. "Father, father! what is it?"
"Nothing, nothing; what should be the matter? I—these attacks come periodically now. A little heart trouble—it will soon pass away. Ring for Joles!"
She obeyed him instantly.
"Good God, good God! Is it possible? Right under my own roof!" muttered Stanton, "and with her! Oh, God!"
"I rang for him, father," said Hélène, looking at him anxiously.
"It's Ditson I want to see. Ditson, Ditson! not Joles." Then he added quickly, "No, I don't want to see any one! I'm better now; these attacks pass away quickly. Sit down, my dear child; I want to talk to you. What were you saying?" he asked, anxious to hear and yet not wishing to arouse her suspicion as to the cause of his anxiety.
"Nothing of any importance, father."
"Yes, yes; I insist! Go right on with our conversation where we left off. You were speaking of your—your—musical professor, Anton Von Barwig." Mr. Stanton had almost completely recovered himself now.
"How did you know his first name, father?"
"You mentioned it, you must have done so," said Mr. Stanton quickly. "Yes, I remember you did! When you first mentioned his name, you called him Anton. And he is upstairs," added her father with a curious laugh, "in this house."
Hélène thought his manner most strange. He was regarding her now with a curious, searching gaze. "He can have told her nothing," he muttered, "he must be as ignorant of the truth as she is. Good God, what a coincidence!"
Joles came and Ditson was sent for. When the confidential secretary arrived, Mr. Stanton and he went into the private study. Hélène followed them.
"Will you need me any more, father?" she asked anxiously.
"No, no!" replied Mr. Stanton.
Hélène went out and closed the door. As she reached the stairway she heard the key turn in the lock. "Why does he lock himself in?" she thought. When Hélène returned to the music room she found her music master waiting patiently for her.
"Forgive me for keeping you waiting!" she said.
"There is great pleasure even in waiting for those we love; we love to teach, I should say," he added quickly.
Inwardly Hélène found herself contrasting her father with this man. "If only he had the tenderness, the lovable qualities of this old musician," she thought, "how I could love him!" As he was taking his leave, her eye caught the music on top of the cabinet and in a moment she saw it had been disturbed. She looked quickly at Von Barwig, but he gave no sign that he knew of its existence.
"I hope some day to be able to play those compositions for you," she said, pointing to them.
"Yes," replied Von Barwig with a smile. "I hope so."
"I'll surprise you some day," she added.
"Yes," said Von Barwig simply, and he determined to allow her to surprise him. "Good-bye!" he said, bowing. She held out her hand.
"Good-bye!" she replied almost tenderly.
"To-morrow at the same time?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes, of course."
Von Barwig breathed a sigh of relief. "She is not angry," he thought. "And it will very soon be to-morrow!"
As Von Barwig walked down Fifth Avenue on his way home to his lodgings in Houston Street he could not help contrasting his present happy existence with the miserably hopeless state in which he had found himself on his first arrival in New York. "And it is to her, Miss Stanton, that I owe all this blessedness. I am a changed man," he said to himself, almost gaily, "I live, I enjoy, for to-morrow I shall see her again. To live that one hour of restful blessedness," he thought, "is well worth the bare existence of the other twenty-three." His friends felt the change, too. They all knew that something had happened, that something had entered the life of the old professor and changed it, but not one of them attempted to pry into his secret.
"Ma foi," said Pinac, "he shall tell himself if he wants to. If not, he shall not!"
Fico's reply was characteristic of that Italian's sunny disposition, and it inverted a familiar saying.
"What the hell we care, so long as he is happy," he said.
Poons loved Von Barwig as a son, but the best of sons are self-centred when they are in love; and Poons saw nothing.
Jenny was silent, she felt that she had lost her dear professor, but with that spirit of sacrifice of which woman alone is capable, she resigned her place in his heart to another. Be it said to her credit there was not a jealous pang, not a moment of envy, nothing but mournful regret and sweet resignation to the inevitable. As a mother gives her son to another woman in marriage, so did Jenny give up Von Barwig; to whom she knew not, nor did she seek to know.
His secret was sacred to all his friends, all, save one, and this solitary exception led to a slight change in the Houston Street establishment. It came about as follows:
"When a man comes home with orchids pinned to his coat," confided Mrs. Mangenborn to her friend Miss Husted, "it looks as if it was only a question of time when he would move uptown into more elegant apartments. Orchids in winter only goes with blue diamonds and yellowbacks!"
Miss Husted shook her head. "Move upstairs more likely than uptown," replied that lady regretfully. "Why, the poor old gentleman don't even get enough to eat. You mark my word for it, some day he's going to keel over! Only yesterday morning I had to beg him almost on my bended knees to join us at dinner and then he only came in to oblige me. He ate scarcely anything, poor dear!"
"Does he pay regularly?" inquired Mrs. Mangenborn, with a lack of sympathy noted by her friend.
"As regularly as clockwork," snapped Miss Husted. "Half price, but how long will he be able to pay even that? Only three pupils, and only one of them pays him in cash. Oh, how people round here have changed since I first came here; how much they do expect for their money nowadays!"
"He's out every afternoon, regularly. He's out evenings with his fiddle; home at four in the morning, he doesn't do that for nothing. I don't think he tells all he knows," concluded Mrs. Mangenborn with a significant wink of the eye, which brought her fat cheek very close to her eyebrow.
"Well," said Miss Husted with a sigh, "of course it's no business of mine where he goes and what he does, but—whatever it is, it's all right! That you can depend on, it is all right."
This was intended to be a rebuke to Mrs. Mangenborn, but it was entirely lost on that lady, for with the very next breath she said bluntly: "Why don't you ask him?"
Miss Husted set her lips firmly together, and this movement might have warned a less obtuse person.
"Why don't you ask him?" repeated Mrs. Mangenborn.
"Because," replied Miss Husted, with more temper than she had ever exhibited before to her friend, "because, Mrs. Mangenborn, it's none of my business!"
There was a slight pause.
"Not wishing to give you a short answer, my dear," supplemented Miss Husted, sorry that she had been compelled to take extreme measures to stay her friend's curiosity.
To her utter surprise Mrs. Mangenborn still persisted.
"Well, it is your business, in a sense," went on that lady. "This is your house, and it is your duty to see that it is conducted respectably!"
"Respectably? Am I to understand, Mrs. Mangenborn, that you intend to convey a hint that my house is not conducted respectably?" demanded Miss Husted. Her back at this moment could not have been straighter had she been leaning against the wall.
"Why, no!" assented Mrs. Mangenborn, who saw that she had gone a little too far. "I merely said that it was your duty, and so it is! People should always do their duty," she added somewhat vaguely.
"I trust I know my duty, Mrs. Mangenborn," said Miss Husted severely, "nor do I require to be put in the path of my duty by anybody, be it he, or be it she, be it transient, or be it permanent."
This was a direct shot and Mrs. Mangenborn gave signs that it had gone home; for she arose. "I am very sorry," she said with heavy-weight dignity, "I am very sorry."
"There is nothing to be sorry for, only this, Mrs. Mangenborn! I'd like it to be thoroughly understood that no person in this living world can besmirch the character of Professor Von Barwig without besmirching me," and Miss Husted folded her arms somewhat defiantly.
"Oh, Miss Husted, Miss Husted, how can you say such a thing! Did I besmirch even a particle of his character? Just prove your words, please; did I, did I?"
Mrs. Mangenborn now came slightly closer to Miss Husted and for a moment it looked as though there would be a personal altercation between the two ladies.
"You said that his hours were not respectable hours, and that he didn't tell all he knew, and—and—oh, I can't remember all you said, Mrs. Mangenborn, nor does it matter in the least! Pray, why should he tell all he knows? It's no lady's business—what he knows! For that matter, do you tell all you know? No," went on Miss Husted, now thoroughly aroused, "but you tell a great many things that you don't know! Not one of your fortunes has come true, lately, not one!"
The cards had toppled over, there were no more fortunes in them, and Mrs. Mangenborn saw that her reign had come to an end.
"I do not care to discuss the question any further," she said loftily, and giving a wide sweep to her skirts she added somewhat grandiloquently:
"Kindly send my bill to my room, and please consider yourself at perfect liberty to dispose of it to some one else."
"With great pleasure, Mrs. Mangenborn," replied Miss Husted, "with very great pleasure! And I may add I was going to ask you for your room this very evening."
Mrs. Mangenborn's only answer was a loud and prolonged laugh, which she kept up all the way to her room and which only ceased when she had shut her door with a loud bang.
"Good riddance!" thought Miss Husted, "a very good riddance!"
Thus the friendship of years was sundered.