"What a strange old man," mused Hélène, as she sat in a box that night
at the Academy of Music and listened to an aria from "William Tell."
"Why do I think of him so constantly?"
"My dear Hélène, you are not a very attentive hostess," said Charlotte
Wendall, a tall brunette. It was after the curtain had fallen on the
act, and the box was filled up with visitors. There was always a crowd
in the Stanton box on the grand tier when Hélène Stanton was present.
"My cousin Beverly has spoken to you twice, and you have not even
intimated that you are aware of his presence."
Charlotte Wendall, as a classmate of Hélène's at Vassar, took a school
friend's privilege of saying just what she thought. Besides, Hélène
was fond of her, and permitted her to say what she pleased.
"Won't you speak to me?" pleaded Beverly. "I do so want to be noticed!
I'll be satisfied with a glance in my direction."
Beverly Cruger had recently finished a post-graduate course at Harvard
and was just budding into the diplomatic service. He was a fine manly
looking chap of twenty-seven, and as he looked down into Hélène
Stanton's face, his pleading eyes attested to the fact that he was more
than merely interested in her.
"I beg your pardon," said Hélène, shaking hands with him warmly.
"Hélène is very pensive to-night. I can't make her out," interposed
Octavie, a pretty little blonde sprite, and a perfect antithesis to her
sister Charlotte. "She is thinking of some one who is not here."
"Quite true," nodded Hélène, smiling.
"Happy fellow," murmured Beverly.
"On the contrary," said Hélène, who had sharp ears. "The fellow I am
thinking about is very unhappy."
"Ah, one of those sad affairs, with languishing eyes, who simpers and
sighs!" said Charlotte laughingly, bursting into what she called poetry.
Hélène smiled a little. "You'd never guess," she said thoughtfully.
Then, after a pause, "I am thinking of a musician, a music master who
lives downtown in one of the little side streets of our crowded city.
He is an artist and a gentleman, who has in all probability devoted the
best years of his life to his music; and he has made a failure of it."
"Did he tell you his story?" asked Beverly, slightly interested.
Hélène shook her head. "He told me he was a great success, a
flourishing artist, a rich man (in her enthusiasm Hélène exaggerated
slightly), and not three minutes afterward the very piano on which he
made his living was taken away from him because he had not sufficient
money to pay for its hire. It was the most pitiful thing I ever saw; I
simply can't forget it!"
"Poor chap! Can't we do anything for him?" asked Beverly, now
thoroughly interested.
"He is very proud. I took one of our mission boys there, a lad who has
great talent for music, and this strange individual refused to take any
compensation for teaching him. He insisted on taking him for nothing,
and said he loved children."
"I should say he was a strange individual," commented Beverly. "He
ought to feel highly flattered at the interest you are taking in him."
"You want to look out for these _distingué_ foreigners, Hélène! You're
an heiress, you know," said Octavie, who was an omnivorous newspaper
reader.
"Yes," said Hélène, and then she was silent. Beverly Cruger looked at
her. Her face, usually happy and smiling, was sad and thoughtful.
"This stranger has made quite an impression on her," he thought. "What
is his name?" he asked, a strange sense of annoyance creeping over him
in spite of himself.
"Herr Von Barwig," replied Hélène.
"Oh, a nobleman," broke in the irrepressible Octavie, who read novels
as well as the newspapers; "a German nobleman! It is a romance, isn't
it? Is he a count, or a baron; or a--prince, perhaps?"
"He didn't tell me," replied Hélène, who could not help smiling at the
curiosity she had aroused. They were all looking at her very anxiously
now, even Mrs. Van Arsdale, the girls' chaperone, was interested.
"He didn't tell me," repeated Hélène; "really he didn't."
"Oh, well, he will!" said Beverly, forcing a smile. He did not like to
admit to himself that he was not exactly enjoying Hélène's romance.
"I am going to see him to-morrow, and I'll make it a point to ask him,"
said Hélène, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She rather enjoyed
Beverly's obvious consternation.
"To-morrow? You see him to-morrow?" asked Beverly, and his heart sank.
The lights were lowered and the next act had begun before she could
make any reply, and then it was too late. He had known her only a few
months, but in that brief time he had seen a great deal of her. He
loved her; of that he was quite sure. It was her immense wealth that
prevented him from asking her to be his wife. But for that he would
have spoken a score of times.
"Where were you?" asked his mother as he returned to his seat beside
her in the stall.
"In box 39," he replied.
"Mr. Stanton's box?" she asked.
"Yes," said Beverly. "I wanted to see Charlotte and Octavie."
"And Miss Stanton?" added his mother. Beverly made no reply.
"You were at her house yesterday," said Mrs. Cruger.
"Yes."
"Beverly, you must be careful! Your father objects to Miss Stanton."
"Objects to her friendship for my cousins?"
"No, to your friendship for her," replied his mother. "You have
already shown her marked attention. She is a very beautiful girl, and
he is afraid that the intimacy may ripen into something more than mere
friendship."
Beverly was unusually silent during the progress of the opera, and when
they arrived home he went straight to his father's study.
Andrew Cruger occupied a position of leadership in New York society
that practically made his position unassailable. He was not a rich
man, but he was the most highly respected diplomat in America; a
scholarly gentleman, the friend of kings and presidents. He had been
of the greatest possible assistance to the secretaries of state of both
parties in solving international problems. The respect of the entire
world was his and he was far more solicitous about his good name than
about his financial [Transcriber's note: A line of the book appears to
be missing here, but the sentence probably ends with "affairs",
"business", or something similar.]
"What is your objection to Miss Stanton, father?" demanded Beverly in a
somewhat excited manner.
"I have no objection to her, my boy," replied his father. Then, seeing
that his son was terribly in earnest, he said in a more serious tone,
"There is some question as to her father's social integrity."
"What has that to do with Miss Stanton?" asked Beverly.
"Nothing, my boy. And may I ask, what has the entire question to do
with us?"
"I love her, father. I want to make her my wife."
Andrew Cruger put down the pen with which he was writing and looked at
his son.
"That's very serious," he said, and walking over to the fireplace he
leaned against the mantelpiece. "You are slated by the incoming
administration for one of the under secretaryships of the German
Legation. You are on the threshold of a great career. A marriage with
Henry Stanton's daughter would not affect you at this stage, but when
you rise to the dignity of ambassadorial honour, as in the course of
events you logically will, your wife, my lad, must be beyond the breath
of calumny. No scandal, no mystery must attach itself to her name."
"What's there against Miss Stanton, father? Won't you tell me?" asked
Beverly.
"Nothing against _her_! Henry Stanton's early life is shrouded in
mystery. He inherited his immense fortune from his uncle. Who her
mother was, no one seems to know, and there lies the mystery. Mr.
Stanton's immense works of charity have succeeded to some extent in
getting him a foothold in New York, but the foundation of his social
position is very insecure. I need scarcely tell you, Beverly, that
although money is a lever that can do much to help a man along in
society, it is almost utterly valueless in the diplomatic world. In
that smallest of small worlds one's name, one's record, one's wife,
one's family must be almost immaculate, subject to the most minute
scrutiny. You are in the diplomatic world; your name will pass muster.
But what of the woman you propose to make your wife?"
Beverly was silent. He had hitherto heard nothing against Henry
Stanton, much less against his daughter.
"It will make no difference to me," he said firmly. "I love her, and,
father, in saying this I mean no disrespect to your authority, but, if
she will accept me, I intend to marry her."
Andrew Cruger made no answer. He merely lowered his head and looked at
his son.
"When?" he asked briefly.
"I have not spoken to her yet," said Beverly.
Old Cruger looked at him quizzically.
"Perhaps I've been a little premature," suggested Beverly. The elder
Cruger shrugged his shoulders. "That is the chief characteristic of
American youth," he said, with a slight smile.
"I should never think of settling the question of dates, or of doing
anything final until I had consulted you and my mother. Nor would I
speak to her without first asking your consent," he added, to please
his father.
Andrew Cruger smiled once more. "Suppose I refuse my consent?" he
asked.
"Well," Beverly hesitated.
"You'll marry her without it? Of course you will! That's if she'll
have you, my boy. The authority of parents is only nominal; therefore
I content myself with warning you that you may ruin your career by such
a marriage."
"I'll risk it," said Beverly.
"In other words you will give up your career?"
"Yes," replied Beverly.
"Quite so," agreed old Cruger. "But if you are too willing to take the
risk, too indifferent as to your future, the world, our world, which
after all is the only world, may say that your wife's fortune made it
unnecessary for you to bother about a career or even about having to
earn your own living."
Beverly looked indignant.
"You know the world, particularly our section of it, has rather an
unpleasant way of putting things. I should not like to have a son of
mine accused of such motives even though I knew it to be untrue."
Beverly was silent. He dimly saw that his father was right.
"Think it over," suggested old Cruger.
"Have I your consent?" asked Beverly.
"Don't put me in the position of being compelled to say, 'Bless you, my
child,' after I have damned you for disobedience," said the elder
Cruger laughingly. "Be quite sure, my boy, that I shall adapt myself
to conditions. If I say 'yes,' it is because I know you will do as you
please in any event, and I don't want to cloud your happiness by
interposing useless objections. I merely warn you! Good-night,
Beverly."
"Good-night, father." Beverly left the room and the elder Cruger
returned to his work.
It was about five minutes before three the next afternoon when Anton
Von Barwig's card was brought up to Hélène's room by Joles. Herr Von
Barwig had evidently taken the precaution to have his name printed on a
piece of pasteboard, so as not to offend Joles's delicate sense of
propriety.
"Will you see him, miss?" asked the man-servant; glancing at the
cardboard somewhat suspiciously.
"Ask him up at once, please," said Miss Stanton, in such a decided tone
that Joles hastened to obey her orders.
Hélène was perplexed; she had been thinking all the morning of the
false position she found herself in. She had told the old music master
that she could not play at all, or could only play a little, and that
she wanted to take piano lessons. At the very outset he would discover
that she was quite a good amateur pianoforte player, with a fine
musical ear, and then he would see through her ruse and refuse to teach
her. She felt that he would see her pretences were only for the
purpose of getting him to give her lessons and she was afraid that he
would be very much offended.
"After all, what does it matter?" she asked herself; and the answer
came quickly, "It does matter." The more she thought of this the more
perplexed she became. Why should she care one way or the other? Who
was this man that she should consider his feelings toward her? The
whole thing was ridiculous! Yet Von Barwig made an irresistible appeal
to her, and she felt that she must rest contented with the fact as it
was, without seeking to know how or why. One point, however, stood out
very clearly: Beverly Cruger had been obviously jealous last night at
the opera. Octavie's silly prattle about a young and handsome foreign
nobleman had had a marked effect upon him, and Hélène's heart beat
slightly faster as she pondered over this phase of the matter.
"He's actually jealous," she thought, and she enjoyed the idea.
Beverly's earnest manliness made her admire him greatly. It almost
reconciled her to Octavie's silliness! He was so different from the
swarm of social bees who sipped only the sweets of pleasure. He was a
worker, a sincere worker, and his promised appointment to the
diplomatic service, notwithstanding his youth, attested the fact that
he was unusual. "He takes an interest in his country's welfare,"
thought Hélène, "and does not ignore it as does the world in which he
lives and moves. He is a patriot; he loves his country. He is
unselfish, too. A good-looking society man who is unselfish, what an
anomaly!" Hélène felt rather grateful to the innocent cause of Beverly
Cruger's jealousy, and when he entered the room she greeted him with a
beaming smile.
"I am so pleased to see you," she said unaffectedly.
Von Barwig had a little paper parcel in his hand. He carefully removed
the paper, putting it in his pocket, and then held out a very tiny
bunch of violets.
"You are spoiling me," declared Hélène, as she took them from him. She
had a large bouquet of orchids in her corsage, which she quickly
removed, and placed the violets there instead.
"I think violets are far prettier than orchids," she said.
Von Barwig looked rather dubious. He was pleased, but he doubted.
"Do sit down!" she said, and he went toward the piano. "Not at the
piano; here," said Hélène, seating him beside her. "Now, listen to me,
sir! You must not bring me expensive flowers every time you call."
"They are not expensive," said Von Barwig with a smile. "It is the box
and the ribbon that costs. You may have observed that I avoided them
on this occasion."
"Well, what shall we talk about?" asked Hélène, after a pause.
"Talk about?" repeated Von Barwig, slightly perplexed. "Our music
lesson!"
"Oh, I don't feel like taking a lesson to-day," said Hélène. "I want
to talk."
"Yes, but I--it is I who must talk, if I am to teach," faltered Von
Barwig in a low voice. He didn't want to go too far, for he had heard
that American heiresses were capricious and whimsical and that they
took likes and dislikes very suddenly. He did not want her to dislike
him, so he would humour her; but he also wanted to teach her.
"You know," she said confidentially, "I think I have a rather
discontented nature. Certain people have a horrible effect on me. I
want to run about, play, sing, read, quarrel, do anything rather than
talk to them. But you, how I like to talk to you! You have a sort of
a--what shall I call it--an all-pervading calmness, that communicates
itself to me, and soothes my ruffled feelings. I don't seem to feel in
a hurry when you're here. And when you smile, as you're smiling now, I
don't know why, but I feel just happy, and contented with myself. Do
you understand what I mean?" The girl had a far-away expression in her
eyes, as if she were day-dreaming. The old man regarded her with a
smile.
"You are trying to put me at my ease," he said finally, "and you have
succeeded, but we make no progress at our music."
"What music have you brought?" she asked.
"I cannot tell what books you will need until I hear you," he replied.
"You'd better get me Bach's studies," she said carelessly.
"Won't you play?" he asked, "and then I can judge."
"Not now," replied Hélène, and then she went on again, telling him of
herself, her life, her aims and ambitions, her predilections and
prejudices. She seldom referred to her father, and mentioned her
mother only occasionally. "How I do ramble on, don't I? I seem to
have known you for years."
"You are very happy, are you not?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" she replied. There seemed to be a tinge of
sadness in her manner, a sort of mental reservation as to her happiness
that she did not like to confess even to herself. "Yes, I _think_ I
am," she said finally.
"Why not?" he answered. "Here all is peaceful, beautiful and
harmonious. What surroundings you have!" and he looked around,
"beautiful art objects to look at, the beautiful park at your very
window. Here all is beauty, joy, peace, without and within. Your
architect was a fine artist, or is it your own taste--all this?"
Hélène nodded. "I designed this part of the house myself," she
replied. "The tapestry and pictures and statuary of course add greatly
to its general appearance, but you are quite right--the architect was
an artist."
"He must have been," commented Von Barwig, looking about approvingly.
[Illustration: Anton learns that his newly found daughter is to be
married.]
"Are you looking at that cabinet, the one with the dolls in it? That's
a sixteenth century piece; it belonged to Maria Theresa. Father
brought it from Paris himself. It's beautiful, isn't it? I keep all
my dolls in it, and some day I'll show them to you. I have a great
collection; but I don't suppose you take much interest in dolls," said
Hélène.
"Your father--he must be a fine man," said Von Barwig with a sigh. "I
have heard so much of his goodness to the poor, his charity, his
interest in church matters----"
"Yes, he is very good," said Hélène, without any enthusiasm in her
voice. "There is not a hospital or a church or an asylum that doesn't
number him among its patrons. Yes, he is really a very good man I
suppose," repeated Hélène as if she were trying to assure herself of
his goodness. "He lays more corner stones and endows more orphanages
than any man in America. He makes beautiful speeches; no public dinner
seems to be complete without him. He knows just what to say and how to
say it, and what is better than all, he knows when not to say anything!"
Von Barwig nodded. "It's a great gift, that of speech," he said. "I
despair of ever being able to speak this language with fluency."
"But you speak English splendidly," said Hélène.
"My accent is terrible," said Von Barwig. "Can you not hear it?"
"Your accent is beautiful to me, a rich German aristocratic roundness
of expression, with nothing in the least harsh or grating to the ear.
I just love to hear you talk!" declared Hélène.
"Really?" asked Von Barwig in surprise.
"Really!" responded Hélène with positive emphasis.
"Ah, you spoil me, young lady; you spoil me! But come, just a few bars
on the piano, that I may see where my young pupil stands."
Hélène looked at him and laughed mischievously.
"Very well," she said, rising with evident reluctance. "I will play
you 'The Maiden's Prayer'----"
"Hum," said Von Barwig dubiously. "She has prayed so many times this
poor maiden; it is time she should be answered. However, it is for you
to decide!"
Hélène seated herself at the piano and played that well-known and
sorely tried air through as badly as she possibly could. When she had
finished she placed her elbows on the keyboard and said: "How do you
like this maiden's prayer?"
Von Barwig looked at her critically. "You can do better than that," he
said.
"How do you know?" she asked quickly.
"Because, at some points you added notes of your own. You increased
the bass, greatly improving the original harmony of the composition,"
replied Von Barwig. "You have talent," he added. "Badly as you play,
badly as you execute, your talent stands out. No one can add to the
composer's work without having musical ideas of his own."
"He has found me out already," thought Hélène. Then she mechanically
picked a tune on the piano with one finger.
Von Barwig's trained musical ear caught the melody in a moment.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked quickly.
"At your house," she answered, "the night I brought Danny to you. I
have a very keen ear for music," she added.
"You gave me quite a start," he said. "It is my symphony, my dead and
buried work. To hear that music from you was startling." There was a
pause. "Do you know the bass part?" he asked.
She closed the piano quickly with a bang. "What do you think of
Danny?" she asked, ignoring his question.
"What a curious girl!" thought Von Barwig, and then he said aloud, "The
boy has possibilities, and so have you," he added.
Hélène laughed. "It's a shame to deceive him," she thought.
"Herr Von Barwig," she began, "I want to be serious a moment. I'm
afraid I've been guilty of a little--what shall I call it?
Indiscretion? No, deception; that's better. I have deceived you--"
She paused; the look of deep consternation on Von Barwig's face
arrested her. "What's the matter?" she asked.
The old man gazed at her. "I don't know," he said, swallowing a lump
in his throat "The fear that something had happened to prevent
the--continuation--of--I am so happy here--I--" He apparently was
unable to explain his meaning, for he stopped short.
"Go on," she said.
Von Barwig shook his head. "You look so serious," he said after a
pause. "I thought perhaps something had happened to prevent my coming
here, and the thought made me very unhappy. I am a foolish old man,
eh? But, I am so happy here, so happy! I try to explain," he said.
"Everything I have had in this world, everything I love I have lost! I
am afraid to love anything for fear that I shall lose it. That's
superstition, is it not? You tell me you have deceived me, and
immediately I think she is going to tell me that she will no longer
deceive me, that she does not like me for a music master! I know," he
added plaintively, "that I am foolish. But my life here since I have
been in this country has made of me a coward. Forgive me; please
forgive me!"
The girl's eyes filled with tears. "No, no!" she said gently. "You
need not fear. I shall never want any other music master but you,
never!"