Von Barwig had left New York with a light heart. Hope had ripened into
expectation, and for the first time since his arrival in America, seven
years since, he had felt something like a positive assurance that this
time his mission was going to result favourably. Hatch had assured him
that his partner had positively found the missing wife and child; and
Von Barwig had gradually allowed himself to think it possible, then
probable, and finally he became almost certain of the successful result
of his journey to Chicago.
As Jenny watched him pack his valise on the afternoon he left for
Chicago, she had noticed that now and then his face beamed with
happiness, the happiness of expected joy. And when he jokingly asked
her how she would like to be his little girl, it made her, so happy
that she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and cry on his
shoulder. She felt that he was just the kind of father she would like
to have, but the conversation didn't get very far, for Von Barwig had a
train to catch and was too busy to hear the little girl's response to
his question.
Jenny thought he was not quite in earnest, certainly not so deeply in
earnest as she was. Her aunt did not quite understand her, and she
needed some one to whom she could open her heart. She felt that Mr.
Von Barwig would listen to her little confidences and sympathise with
her; perhaps even tell her his troubles. Young as the girl was, she
felt that the man had suffered. She couldn't tell why, but her little
heart had gone out to him in sympathy almost from the moment she saw
him. How it was she could not have explained, but she loved him.
Jenny thought these things over long after Mr. Von Barwig had departed
on his journey. It made her glad to think how happy he was when he
left the house with his valise and umbrella, hurrying to catch the
little bobtail car that wended its way across town to the Pennsylvania
ferry.
So it came about that when Jenny, looking out of the window some few
days later, saw him coming up the street slowly, disconsolately, almost
dragging himself along, the little girl experienced a great shock. The
man seemed to have changed altogether. It was the same dear Mr. Von
Barwig, yes, but the eyes of love cannot be deceived; he looked older,
and oh, so careworn and tired! She rushed to the door at once, to save
him the trouble of finding his night key, and greeted him with
affectionate inquiry. To her intense disappointment, he nodded
absentmindedly to signify his appreciation of her act. The faint,
ghost of a smile came over his face, but he did not look at her.
Silently he opened the door to his room and passed into it without
speaking, closing the door firmly behind him. Jenny's heart sank; she
felt rather than knew that her friend was in trouble, for he did not
pat her on the head or pinch her cheek as he had always done before
when she opened the door for him.
Her inability to be of any service to him only added to the child's
sorrow; tears came into her eyes as she stood looking at the closed
door, for she felt completely shut out of his life. At supper that
night, when her aunt asked her "what ailed her," and invited Mrs.
Mangenborn to look at "Jenny's long face," the child tried to laugh,
failed completely, and burst into a flood of tears. Jenny could not
have explained to herself the whys and wherefores of her tearful
outburst, but the child could not forget poor Von Barwig's drawn,
haggard face and its weary, hopeless expression.
"She's a queer child," commented Mrs. Mangenborn, when Jenny had gone
to bed that night.
"Her father had blue blood," replied Miss Husted impressively, "and you
always find hysterical natures in high-born families."
"I shouldn't wonder," agreed her friend; "something is wrong with the
child, that's plain."
"What do you suppose it is," said Miss Husted, rather anxiously.
"Perhaps she's working up for an illness! Oh, dear," she went on,
almost in tears, for shallow as she was herself, she loved the child
deeply, "shall I send for a doctor? I think I'd better; I always feel
safer with a doctor in the house."
"Wait till the morning," suggested Mrs. Mangenborn; "if anything's
going to develop, you'll know what it is by then."
"Do you think anything will develop?" inquired Miss Husted, clutching
Mrs. Mangenborn by the arm.
"I don't know for certain," replied her friend, "but it can't be much
anyway, or I'd have seen it there," pointing to a pack of cards on the
mantelpiece. "Wait a moment," she said suddenly, and then she knit her
brows as if thinking very hard; "didn't the six of spades come out
true? Yes, it did!" and she shook her head thoughtfully.
"I shan't feel comfortable till I go and see her," said Miss Husted,
now thoroughly alarmed; and taking a lamp from a side table, the good
lady went upstairs to look at her niece.
"That six of spades surely came out for something," muttered Mrs.
Mangenborn to herself. "Six is tragedy! Well, we must take what
comes," she continued philosophically as she helped herself liberally
to some chocolate caramels that Miss Husted had thoughtfully, or
thoughtlessly, left on the table.
In the meantime, another tragedy of a very different sort was being
enacted in the room on the parlor floor--the tragedy of the death of
hope. For when Anton Von Barwig closed the door of his room on the
evening of his return from Chicago, he closed it finally and forever
upon hope, and gave himself up completely to dull, grim, sodden
despair. Not only this, but he cursed himself for ever having hoped.
He never suspected for a moment that the eminent firm of Hatch &
Buckley had wilfully deceived him, for Mr. Hatch's partner almost cried
with vexation and disappointment when he found that the woman and child
he pointed out were not the "parties" they were looking for. Indeed,
Mr. Buckley's grief was so poignant that Von Barwig almost felt sorry
for the man, who declared that his professional honour as a detective
was ruined from that moment. It was, in this case, for Von Barwig made
up his mind at once never to employ him again.
The summer twilight was fast deepening into night as Von Barwig sat
staring out of his window, looking at the passers-by and seeing them
not. He rebelled against fate, conditions, life; and for the first
time in his career he railed at his Creator. He had asked for light,
and no light came in answer to his prayer; only more darkness, more
disappointment, more loneliness. He sat with bowed head, wondering
what was the meaning of it all. Who could solve the problem; who could
straighten out his tangled life; who could explain it? Was the devil
really and truly greater than God--the God who is Love?
Von Barwig had read Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Haeckel, all the school of
pessimistic philosophers that exercised such a tremendous influence
upon the thought of his day; but he had always instinctively rebelled
against the nihilism of their creed, the creed of materialism. Yet, at
this moment he was perilously near to believing that the force for evil
was greater than the force for good. There was no love in his life;
and for him love was life itself. As he sat there with eyes fixed and
staring, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he thought over the events
that had come to him since his sojourn in America. For the past seven
years he had devoted every thought, every energy, and nearly every
penny he had to the search for his loved ones. And he had failed,
failed, failed.
When the first shock of his loss came upon him in Leipsic he had asked
himself the meaning of it, and the answer had come to him that Art had
been his mistress, and that she had stepped in between him and the ones
he loved. He had been selfish, he had loved his Art as much, more
perhaps, than his own flesh and blood--and this was his punishment.
Yet he had given up his mistress, Art; he no longer lived for her; he
would live for his wife and child, if he could only find them, if, if,
if! He felt that there was indeed nothing to live for! Then why live,
he asked himself? Better be dead; far better be dead! Who would care
if he were no more? At this moment Von Barwig caught himself up, and
realising his own danger refused to allow himself to drift along that
line of thought. Life meant nothing to him now, but live he must, live
he would; that he was determined on. Complex as the problem was, he
would go on with it. He was not a coward, and for this he thanked his
Creator.
In thanking Him he gained a little courage, and he asked for a sign,
something to indicate that he was not the sport of fate, the creature
of circumstance; something, anything, to indicate that God had not
completely forgotten him. With bowed head Von Barwig prayed that he
might be saved from himself; that thoughts of self-destruction might
never again come into his mind; for he felt that he might not always
have the power to reject them. He asked that the desire to live might
again come upon him; for it dawned upon him that perhaps his duty lay
in the direction of serving others. Desire is prayer, and Von Barwig's
prayer was answered, for when he looked into the street he saw life
once more. Opening his window he heard the voices of the children at
play. He saw their joy, and rejoicing with them, he thanked God that
he could rejoice. As he arose from his chair he sighed, a deep, deep
sigh, and the darkest moment in his life had passed.
"Was that a knock?" Anton asked himself as he turned toward his door.
"Surely not a visitor?"
Lighting his lamp, he looked at the cuckoo clock upon the wall. It
said a quarter past nine o'clock; he had not heard the cuckoo strike
seven, eight, or nine!
"Phew!" he whistled, "I had no idea it was so late." Again the timid
little knock.
"Surely I can't be mistaken again," thought Von Barwig, and walking to
the door he threw it wide open.
To his utter astonishment, a little girl in a white night-gown stood
there, silently sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Why, Jenny, Jenny!" and Von Barwig, taking the trembling child in his
arms, placed her gently in his armchair. "Jenny, my dear child."
"I--I--couldn't go to sleep until I'd said good-night; I tried to but I
couldn't," sobbed Jenny as soon as she could speak coherently.
"Why, what has happened?" asked Von Barwig, as he covered her with a
travelling rug.
"You asked me to be your little girl, and then, when I said 'Yes,' you
didn't answer; and
I--thought--you--were--angry--with--me--because--because!
When--you--came--in, I felt so sorry for you, and you looked so unhappy
that I had to come down and ask you to forgive me. I--I just couldn't
help--it. You're not angry, are you?"
"My dear, dear little girl. I, angry?" Von Barwig shook his head.
"How could I be angry with you? Why should I? Why, it's--it's
impossible!" and Von Barwig laughed at the very idea. Jenny sighed
deeply and remained silent; she seemed contented simply to be with him.
After a few moments' silence Von Barwig looked at her.
"Is this my answer; is this--my--answer?" he thought, and then he said
slowly, "I am glad, more glad than I can ever tell you, that you have
come to me at this moment."
He looked at the girl thoughtfully; she was not his little Hélène, but
he would try to love her as if she were. Von Barwig took her hand in
his and tenderly stroked her cheek.
"You shall be my little girl, my little one, eh, eh? You shall!"
"Yes," nodded Jenny, smiling happily, "I'll be your little girl, if
you'll have me." And from that moment Von Barwig never again felt
quite alone in the world.
At this instant a loud scream was heard, followed by another, and still
another.
Von Barwig rushed into the hallway, followed by Jenny.
"She's gone, gone! jumped out of the window!" screamed Miss Husted,
from the top floor. "Look! the window's open, and she's gone; jumped
out--gone."
"Who, who?" shouted Thurza, rushing upstairs.
"Jenny, Jenny!" wailed Miss Husted--so excited that she was almost
beside herself.
Jenny and Von Barwig looked at one another in astonishment and the
little girl hurried after Thurza, arriving upstairs just in time to
prevent her aunt from going into hysterics.
"Here I am, auntie," she said, and Miss Husted was so delighted to see
her niece again, that she forgot to scold her. As she came downstairs
after satisfying herself that Jenny was not only safe and sound, but in
her usual health--she found Herr Von Barwig at the foot of the stairs
waiting for her.
"She is all right, eh, madam?"
"Oh, yes," responded that lady, pleased that Herr Von Barwig should be
interested in the welfare of any member of her family.
"She is a good child; I like her very much, very much."
"Yes, Jenny is a very good girl; her father was a member of one of the
oldest New York families, quite the aristocrat let me tell you!"
"Ah, yes. Her father is dead?" repeated Von Barwig, "and her mother
also?" he asked.
"I am her only living relative," sighed Miss Husted.
"Ah, I am glad of that," said Von Barwig simply, "Yes--I--Jenny and I
have come to an understanding. I am her--what you call--not
father-in-law--her--her----"
Von Barwig fumbled a little with the English language until he made
Miss Husted understand that he had taken her niece under his wing, so
to speak; and hoped that she would have no objection. On the contrary,
Miss Husted was highly pleased, for one of her lodgers had told her
that Von Barwig had been a great man in Germany.
"I shall go out to dinner. Is there a restaurant near here that you
can recommend?" asked Von Barwig. "Dinner? Why it's nearly ten
o'clock!" replied Miss Hasted, "let me get you a cup of tea."
"No, thank you, madam. I must go into the street, into the _café_,
where there is life, and people; I must get away from myself. Here I
think too much my own thoughts. Where did you say?"
"Galazatti's across the street is a nice little _café_," she replied,
"and he serves a nice _table d'hôte_."
"Ah, I shall go there, then. Thank you, madame. Good-night!" and Von
Barwig bowing to Miss Husted, closed the front door quietly and went
into the street.