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.
[Illustration: Hélène prepares her trousseau.]
At this precise moment the innocent object of their strife let himself
in at the front door.
"Ah, my dear Professor Von Barwig, I was just thinking of you," said
Miss Husted, as she followed him into his rooms. "I've got rid of her
at last; Mrs. Mangenborn is going."
Von Barwig smiled. "Is she?" he said simply, "I am glad for your sake.
Now you will be mistress of your own establishment."
"I was always mistress of my own establishment, professor," replied
Miss Husted with dignity. "Always."
"Except sometimes when the cards would direct the policy of the house,"
said Von Barwig. "Whenever there is a superstition, dear lady," he
went on, "there is no freedom! We become slaves of our own beliefs."
"Well, I'm glad she's going, anyway," said Miss Husted, not quite
comprehending, but not wishing to dispute with Von Barwig. "Why,
professor!" and Miss Husted started. She had just noticed that his
clothes and books were packed into bundles, as if ready to be carried
away. "Professor, professor!" she gasped, "what is the meaning of
that?" and she pointed to a big stack of music tied up, "and that, and
that, and that," pointing to various articles.
"It means, dear lady, that I'm going to move," said Von Barwig
complacently.
"Move!" almost shrieked Miss Husted.
"Yes, as the top floor will not come down to me, I shall move up to the
top floor. You see I am nearly all ready. Pinac and Fico will help
me; and up I shall go! It is one way of getting up in the world, eh,
Miss Husted?" he said with a little laugh, and he looked at her as if
he expected her to laugh, too, but she did not join in his merriment.
"There's no room upstairs," she said at last, as if determined he
should not go.
"Oh, yes, in the hallway; a nice little room, large enough for my
wants."
"But that is a storeroom," cried Miss Husted.
"When I occupy it, it will be a bedroom," laughed Von Barwig, "and just
think," he added, "I shall be nearer my friends! They can visit me
without running up and down stairs. I shall have additional
advantages, at a less rental."
Miss Husted looked at him sorrowfully. She knew it was useless to
argue with him, so she gave her consent, but insisted on taking a very
small sum for her room. And so Von Barwig moved from the ground floor
to the attic. This floor with its huge atelier window on the roof and
its stair running down at the back had been used by an artist on
account of the splendid light. Although a hallway, it was fitted up as
a room. There was a stove, a sink, a large cupboard, and other
conveniences for light housekeeping. There were four bedroom doors
opening into this hallway, three of which were occupied by Pinac, Fico
and Poons, and the fourth Von Barwig took possession of. They all
begged him to take their rooms, but he shook his head and smiled and
they knew it was useless to ask him, so the skylight musketeers, as
they called themselves, had complete possession of the hall, which
served them as a common parlour.
It was roomy and airy in the summer, but draughty and cold in the
winter; as it was now warm weather, Von Barwig and his friends did not
suffer any inconvenience at this time. The men did not see much of
each other in these days. Pinac and Fico had secured engagements on an
excursion steamboat that plied its way to Coney Island and back. They
were away all day, and when they came back late at night Von Barwig was
at the Museum. He saw more of Poons than he did of the others, for
that young man had no regular engagement, but played now and then as
substitute in one of the downtown theatre orchestras, so he just about
managed to eke out an existence on a cash basis, and the three older
men were as proud of this fact as if he were their own son. Von Barwig
was strangely happy; he took no interest whatever in his physical
existence. His immediate surroundings, the people he saw, the food he
ate, made no mental impression upon him. Life was a mechanical
process, a routine existence to him till midday, when he would, to
quote his own words, "begin to live," that is, he would start uptown on
his walk to Fifty-seventh Street. Rain or shine he would not ride, for
the motion of riding on the bumpy stages interfered with the flow of
his thoughts. "Now begins my day," he would say to himself as he
started on his journey to his pupil's house, some four or five miles
from Miss Husted's establishment. The old man was happy; happy in
going, happy when there, happy when thinking that the next day he would
see her again. So when, for the third successive time, in as many
days, Joles informed him that Miss Stanton was not at home, Von Barwig
experienced a feeling of disappointment accompanied by a sense of fear.
"She--Miss Stanton is well?" faltered he to the dignified Mr. Joles,
who was regarding him with a haughty expression, not unaccompanied with
disdain.
"I beg your pardon!" said Joles in anything but an apologetic manner.
"Miss Stanton is well?" repeated Von Barwig.
"Oh, yes," replied Joles. "Indeed, yes." His answer intended to
convey to Von Barwig that such a question was entirely unnecessary, not
to say uncalled for.
"It's very strange," Von Barwig mused as he walked home. "She always
writes me a little note or leaves a message for me with one of the
servants, letting me know when to come for the next lesson."
Then he tried to assure himself that it was all right, that in the
stress of her social obligations she had forgotten.
"It's all right, Barwig, you make yourself miserable for nothing. You
expect too much. She is a petted, pampered, fêted young lady of
fortune, the daughter of a Croesus; do you think she can always think
of you? Who are you that she should spare you so much time? You
overrate yourself; you--you idiot." People stopped in the streets to
look at the old man, who was walking so rapidly and gesticulating so
excitedly. When Von Barwig saw that he was observed, he calmed down.
"It's all right," he said. "To-morrow! I shall see her to-morrow!"
That evening at the Museum the night professor was strangely
inattentive. So deeply was he engrossed in his own thoughts that he
entirely forgot to play when Bosco was announced. He was rewarded by
that young lady with a look that was intended to annihilate him on the
spot, but the professor did not happen to be looking that way. "She
will be there to-morrow, or she will leave a message," he was saying to
himself.
"Bites their heads off; bites their heads off! Holy gee! Don't you
hear, profess'? It's her cue," came in thundering tones from the
throat of Mr. Al Costello. "What the hell's the matter, profess'?
Eats 'em alive, eats 'em alive!" he bawled, glaring at Von Barwig, and
then the night professor "found himself."
"Oh, my gracious," he thought as he banged on the piano--the chords
intended to depict musically the armless wonder's cannibalistic
proclivities. Bosco not only bit their heads off, she bit her lips
with vexation. It was too late; not a hand applauded when she came on
and the fat lady laughed aloud and fanned herself vigorously. She
hated Miss Bosco, who, being a headliner, had lorded it over the rest
of the unfortunate freaks in a manner deeply resented by them; so the
fat lady was glad to see Bosco's act fall down. The skeleton looked
wise and tapped his bony forehead with his bony fingers.
"Dippy," he articulated. "All musicians are dippy," he added.
The midgets looked serious, for they loved the professor. Tears
started in the little lady's eyes; she expected a storm, for she was
terribly afraid of Bosco.
"I do hope that Mr. Costello won't haul him over the coals," said the
albino to the tattooed girl. "He's such a nice old guy!"
After the show Mr. Costello listened to Von Barwig's apology in
silence, and silence meant a great deal of self-restraint for him.
"It's all right if she don't raise a holler," he said, taking his
diamond ring off his necktie and placing it on his finger for the
night. "But you must keep awake, see? It looks like blazes to see the
profess' asleep! It not only sets the audience a bad example, but it
looks as if we was givin' a bum show." Then he added warningly, "We
had one profess' last year who went to sleep on us regular, and snored
so that we used his noise instead of the snare drums. Well, we left
him sound asleep after the show one night and turned the lights off.
When he woke up he thought the wax figures was ghosts, and he threw a
fit right on the piano. Holy Mackerel! It took nearly two quarts of
whiskey to get him right for the next show; so don't do it again,
profess'," he ended solemnly.
Von Barwig promised that he would not--but he made up his mind that
just as soon as terms for teaching Mrs. Cruger's nieces were arranged,
he would at once give Mr. Costello notice of his determination to
resign from the night professorship at the Museum. This thought
contributed in no small degree to his peace of mind, for he had begun
to loathe the very thought of this place.
When Von Barwig arrived home he found a letter on the hall table. He
went up to his little room, lit the candle, sat down on his bed and
read the following:
"Mrs. Cruger presents her compliments to Herr Von Barwig, and regrets
to inform him that unexpected circumstances have arisen which will
obviate the necessity of his calling upon her in regard to her nieces'
studies."
"Very well," he said to himself, as he folded up the letter. "I shall
have more time to think of her," and he went to bed and slept
peacefully.
A week elapsed. Each day he had patiently gone uptown to Miss
Stanton's house. He had started out full of hope and returned home in
despair. On each occasion he had been informed by Mr. Joles that Miss
Stanton was out, that she had left no message for him, and that he did
not know when she would return. Finally he wrote to her and waited
patiently for an answer; but there was no word. The old man's hope of
seeing her again gradually grew smaller and smaller until at last the
old feeling of dull despair, the old gnawing pain of unsatisfied
affection came back to him again. "I am doomed," he thought; "doomed
to live my life alone!" He would sit for hours and hours and try to
think out why she did not see him, why she did not answer his letter.
Was she away? If so, why did she not let him know? Had she found out
that he played in a Bowery museum? Or did she suspect that he knew
that she did not need lessons? If so, was that sufficient cause for
her neglect? No, he could not reason it out on those lines! Why did
Mrs. Cruger send him a note dismissing him after practically promising
to engage him as music master to her nieces? Did Mrs. Cruger dismiss
him at all, or had circumstances arisen that obviated the necessity of
engaging him? Was it merely a coincidence that she should dismiss him
at the same time that Hélène avoided seeing him? Were these two
conditions in any way connected with each other? Was Hélène really
trying to avoid him? Had she received his letter? Did she really
know? This last question gave him much comfort and he persistently
dwelt on that phase of the situation. To believe that she knew; it was
inconceivable to him. She would surely have written. "Did I address
the letters properly? Did I put stamps on?" he asked himself. "There
is a mistake somewhere," he concluded; "a mistake that time will surely
adjust."
The next day, after going through the usual performance of asking for
Miss Stanton and being informed by Mr. Joles of the young lady's
absence, Von Barwig ventured to extend the field of his inquiry.
"Is Mr. Stanton in?" he asked in a low voice, scarcely knowing why he
should ask for her father, or what he should say if he was fortunate
enough to obtain an interview with him.
"Mr. Stanton!" repeated Mr. Joles, almost horrified at the idea of Von
Barwig's asking for his master.
"Mr. Stanton?" he repeated. "Have you an appointment with him?"
Von Barwig admitted that he had not.
"Mr. Stanton sees no one without an appointment," said Mr. Joles,
slowly recovering from the shock Von Barwig had given him. "Besides
which, he is at present at Bar Harbour."
"Are you sure there is no message for me?" pleaded Von Barwig.
"Quite sure," responded Mr. Joles.
"But there must be," pleaded the old man. He was desperate now. "Did
she get my note?"
"My advice is for you to go home and wait till Miss Stanton signifies
that your presence is required. That's the best thing to do--really."
Mr. Joles volunteered this advice, which contained little comfort, but
Von Barwig's lip quivered and he nodded his head thankfully. Even the
advice to go away and stay away contained more hope than the cold
stolid stone-wall indifference he had encountered day after day from
Mr. Joles.
"Thank you, Mr. Joles! I will, I will," and Von Barwig plodded his way
wearily back to Houston Street. For one whole week he did not go near
the Stanton house. He contented himself with hoping. He would sit in
his little room and rush out every time he heard the letter-carrier's
whistle, but no letter came. One day, when he could no longer restrain
himself, he carefully brushed his clothes and prepared to walk uptown
again.
"She must be in, she must be in; and she will see me. This time I know
she will see me; I am sure of it; sure of it," he kept repeating to
himself. "She can't be so cruel!"
He found himself looking into a florist's window and started with a cry
of joy.
"That's a good omen, a very good omen! You're all right, Barwig; she
will see you."
He had recognised the florist in Union Square that he had bought the
violets he presented her with on the day he first called upon her. He
went in and bought a bunch of violets.
"We begin all over again," he said to himself. "We forget all this
weary waiting, all this stupid fear. Now, Miss Hélène, we are prepared
for our lesson," he said, as he took the box of flowers and walked
uptown with renewed hope. His heart beat very rapidly as he walked up
the steps.
"Courage, Barwig," he said to himself; "the tide turns I You will see!"
He rang the bell. There was no answer. Several times he repeated this
action; each time he waited several minutes. Finally he rang the bell,
and added to it a loud knock. His persistence was rewarded, for Mr.
Joles came to the door. He did not wait for Von Barwig to speak, as he
usually did, but proceeded to inform the old man that his actions were
"simply disgraceful."
"Miss Stanton is not in and what's more she is not liable to be in," he
said severely. "Some people cannot take a hint! If Miss Stanton
wanted to see you, Miss Stanton would have sent for you," added Mr.
Joles, and his manner was quite ruffled. He took it as a personal
offence that Mr. Von Barwig should so persist in calling at a house
where it was evident he was not wanted.
Von Barwig was speechless; he could make no reply. Insulted, turned
away, humiliated by her servants! She must know, he felt sure she knew
now and his degradation was complete. The old man turned to go now
desiring only to get away, somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide his
head, where he could hide his grief from the world. Joles shut the
door with a bang. He evidently intended that the music master's
dismissal should be final. That door bang put a new idea into Von
Barwig's bewildered brain.
"That does not come from her," he cried, "she does not insult, she does
not lacerate the heart, she would not purposely humiliate me. No, this
last degradation could emanate only from one who has the soul of a
servant. This is revenge! He hates me, but why? Good God! Why?
I've done nothing to him," and the old man groaned aloud in his misery.
"I'll wait and see, perhaps she is at Bar Harbour with her father. How
do I know? How do I know?"
After this, Von Barwig did something that he had never done before in
his whole life; he hid himself in the shadow of the opposite corner,
and watched. "It is a mean action," he said to himself, "but she will
forgive, she will forgive!"
For hours he stood there watching and waiting, and the time slipped by
almost without his being conscious of it, until the shadows of night
began to fall. Once a policeman, seeing him crouched in the corner,
stopped and looked at him.
"What are you doing there?" he asked.
Von Barwig turned his pale, tear-stained countenance and looked at the
officer; then a gentle smile crept over his face.
"I am waiting," he said simply.
There was such utter pathos in the old man's voice, such gentle dignity
in his manner, such a pleading look in his eyes that it seemed to
satisfy the guardian of the law, for he walked on without uttering
another word.
Von Barwig's weary vigil soon came to an end. A pair of horses and a
carriage drove up to the Stanton mansion and stopped at its doors. Von
Barwig instantly recognised the Stanton livery, but the carriage was
empty.
"It is waiting for some one," he muttered to himself. "Courage,
courage! We shall soon see!"
It was now nearly dark, and he could approach nearer to the house
without fear of being seen. The carriage stood there quite a time,
during which the horses pawed the ground impatiently.
"Patience, patience," said Von Barwig to himself. "You soon see."
His patience was rewarded, for the door opened, and Hélène Stanton
issued forth, clad in a handsome evening costume. To Von Barwig's
fevered mind, she looked more radiantly beautiful, more tranquilly
happy than he had ever before seen her. She walked rapidly down the
brown stone steps, stepped quickly into the carriage and was whirled
away before Von Barwig could realise what had happened. The old man
could have shrieked aloud in his agony.
"She knows, she knows, she knows!" he kept saying to himself, as he
groped his way toward home. He was dazed, benumbed. The many figures
coming and going, this way and that way, seemed like a spectral vision
to him. How he got as far as Union Square he never knew, but the first
place he recognised was the open square. A large piano organ was
playing and quite a number of people were grouped around it. This
music recalled him to himself.
"I know the worst now; the sword of hope no longer hangs over my head.
At least my suspense is over," he said, "thank God it is over!"
He now realised what had happened.
"No more waiting and watching for the word that never comes!" he
thought. "My dream is over! I am awake again, I will think no more of
it."
He was walking across the square now. The evening was warm and sultry
and all the benches were crowded with people except one on which a
woman was seated holding a babe that was crying.
"Either people do not want to disturb her, or they do not want to be
disturbed by the crying infant," thought Von Barwig, mechanically
taking in the situation. He was now acutely conscious of things going
on around him.
"What is the matter with that baby?" he wondered. He stooped and
looked at the infant. It was crying piteously, so he looked at the
woman and was struck by the fact that she was taking no notice of her
child. She seemed to be absolutely unconscious of the fact that it was
crying.
"How strange!" thought Von Barwig.
She was a young, girlish woman with rather attractive features, but
pale and wan. Von Barwig could not help noticing the look of abject
despair on her face. The child cried on, but she seemed oblivious of
the fact.
"Can she hear it?" he asked himself. "Is she the mother and yet allows
the babe to suffer without trying to help it?" Von Barwig's interest
was aroused and he determined to speak to her.
"I beg your pardon," he said gently to the girl. "Can I not do
something for you?"
She turned to him and shook her head.
"Can I do something for the child? It--it suffers."
"Yes," responded the girl in a hoarse voice. "I suppose it does--it's
hungry!"
Instinctively Von Barwig put his hand in his pocket, but the girl shook
her head.
"Not that, not that!" she said quickly. "I have enough to eat, but--"
She looked at him more closely, looked into his eyes, and felt rather
than saw that it was not mere idle curiosity that was prompting his
question.
"It's very kind of you to take an interest in a stranger. I'm feeding
the child myself," she said after a pause; "but I can't now, I can't!"
The girl tried hard to keep back her tears. "It would poison her if I
did! I dare not until I feel different. I'm full of hate and misery
and hell, and I dare not feed it to the child. Mother's milk is poison
when the mother feels as I do!" she cried, striking her breast in her
misery.
The old man took her hand. "Don't, please don't," he said gently;
"unless you want the child to die. Compose yourself, my dear girl, and
tell me what has happened. I'm a stranger to you, yes, but misery
brings us together and makes us old friends." He seated himself beside
her. "Tell me; I am old enough to be your father! You have none, eh?"
"Yes," said the girl, "I have, but--" she broke off suddenly. Then she
said, "My husband has left me, and the child not eight weeks old.
Isn't that hard luck? Left me--for another! Oh, I know it's an old
story, but it's new enough to me. God knows it's new enough to me!"
Von Barwig comforted her as well as he could, and when the girl quieted
down she told him her story. It was conventional enough. She had run
away from home and married a young fellow she met in a Harlem dance
hall. She knew nothing of his people or of his early life. She simply
married him, and now he had deserted her after the arrival of her
child. There was nothing uncommon or strange either in her story or
her way of telling it. Von Barwig had heard such stories hundreds of
times, but to him the pathos of the situation lay in the inability of
the young mother to feed the crying child owing to her distracted
mental condition. Further, the fact that she was sufficiently
acquainted with the laws of physiology to realise this truth showed Von
Barwig that the girl had received a better education than most of her
class.
"Have you money?" he asked her.
"A little," the girl replied listlessly. "Oh, God, if the child would
only stop crying," she said as she kissed and fondled the babe. Then
she sighed. "I feel better now," she said, "much better. Perhaps in a
little while I shall be myself again." Von Barwig handed her a five
dollar bill.
"You will buy the little fellow something with the compliments of a
stranger. What do you call him?" he said quickly, for he saw that his
generous action had brought tears to the girl's eyes and he wanted to
prevent her crying. "He's a fine little chap," he added.
"It's a girl," she said, the ghost of a smile coming into her face.
"Her name is Annie. I'll take this for her sake. Thank you, sir,
thank you!"
"A little girl," he said in his low, gentle voice; "a little girl! I
had a little girl once," and he stifled the sob that came into his
throat. The girl heard this sob and squeezed his hand gently in
sympathy.
"Let me tell you a story, my child, it may help you to bear the burden
of life, as your story has helped me!"
Von Barwig reseated himself by the girl's side and recounted to her the
whole story of his miserable unhappy existence from beginning to end.
This stranger was the only one to whom he had ever told it all. The
girl was intensely interested, and it had the desired effect of taking
her thoughts off her own misery. When Von Barwig took his leave of her
an hour or so later, the colour had come into her waxen cheeks and she
was quietly nursing her baby.
"I have been asleep," he said to himself, "but I am awake now. Life is
all about me; I must not be blind to it again!"
As Von Barwig turned the corner of Houston Street and the Bowery, he
glanced at the clock in the watchmaker's on the corner. It was eleven
o'clock. He did not go to the Museum that night.
"Are you quite sure there is no letter for me, Joles?" Hélène asked
anxiously, as she came in late that night.
"Quite sure, miss."
Hélène thought a moment. "It's very strange," she said. "I've written
to him so many times."
Joles's face expressed nothing. Hélène shook her f head slowly and
walked upstairs. Before she went to bed that night she sent the
following note:
"MY DEAREST BEVERLY: Come to-morrow morning and take me to lunch. I
want you to do a little diplomatic work for me.
"Your loving
"HÉLÈNE."