Von Barwig now firmly made up his mind that it would never be his good
fortune to see his beloved pupil again. "She has gone out of my life
as suddenly as she came into it," he said with a deep sigh.
To a man of his mental activity the loss of almost the sole object of
his thoughts created an aching void, and yet so hopeful was he in spite
of the constant repetition of blasted hopes and unfilled desire that
two or three days after the occurrences just narrated he had resolved
on a new plan of action.
"Poons and Jenny shall marry at once," said he as he arose that morning
and dressed himself to go to the rehearsal of a new songstress at the
Museum.
"The son of your old friend and the niece of your good landlady shall
mark a new epoch for you, Barwig. You overrated yourself, you loved
the daughter of millions, you lived beyond your means, my friend. Now
it is time you lived within your income," he said, looking at himself
in the glass, as he combed his grey hair. "Love Jenny and Poons; poor
little neglected ones, you had forgotten their existence! No more
extravagances, no more reaching for the impossible! Here down in
Houston Street is your life! It is your own, live it! Don't go after
the fleshpots of Fifth Avenue, don't cheapen yourself that servants and
lackeys may insult and deride you."
Yet ever as he spoke, a mental image of his beloved pupil came before
him, and his heart sank as he thought that he should never see her
again.
"Why has a mere thought, a stray idea the power to make us so unhappy?"
he asked himself. This question was still unanswered when there came
into his mind the memory of the unfortunate young woman he had met on
Union Square a few nights before. Her misery, her agony of mind, the
crying babe, all came before him in a flash. "My God, when I think of
her, I am ashamed of myself! Here I howl and tear my hair and rail at
fortune because I lose something that I never had; she was never
mine--this girl of millions--I had no right to her. But the sufferings
of that poor child-wife are real, deep, heartrending; and there are
thousands of others like her in this world. Get up, sluggard, get up!
Go out and comfort them; go out into the world and mend broken hearts.
It is your trade! You have qualified, for your own is battered to
pieces."
This idea gave him peace of mind for a short time, but presently his
thoughts ran into the old groove. Try as he would he could not direct
them away from the line of easiest mental resistance.
"If I could only see her once again," he thought, "perhaps I could
explain away the cause of our separation. Perhaps I--" and he started
up suddenly, the idea sweeping him off his feet. "By God, I make one
more effort; just one more effort! And if that fails, I give it up; it
shall be the last! This time I swear it shall be the last. Yes, I go,
I demand an interview. It is my right." He was as full of hope now as
he had ever been. As a gambler eagerly stakes his last bet, so Von
Barwig hastened to finish dressing and go to her, to make his one last
appeal.
As he brushed his coat hurriedly, there came a knock at the door.
"Come in," said Von Barwig rather impatiently, thinking that it was
Poons. He did not feel in the mood just at that moment for casual
conversation. "Come in," he repeated in a louder voice, and to his
utter amazement in walked Beverly Cruger.
Von Barwig could only stare at him in speechless astonishment. He was
literally dumfounded. Young Cruger evidently saw this, for he seized
Von Barwig's hand and shook it warmly.
"How do you do, Herr Von Barwig?" he said.
"Thank you, well! Sit down," the old man managed to gasp out, as he
pointed to a chair. "You come from her, from Miss Stanton?" he
articulated in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the younger man.
"Yes," said Beverly, taking off his gloves and placing them on the
table. "I want to have a little talk with you. May I?"
Von Barwig did not answer his question.
"Did--she--did she send you?" he asked. His eyes glistened; his very
life seemed to depend on the answer.
Beverly nodded. "Yes, she wanted me to ask you a few questions. Are
you sure you have the time to spare?"
Von Barwig laughed from sheer joy. Time! to some one who came from
her! He could only nod in acquiescence and wait for the young man to
speak.
"How many letters have you received from Miss Stanton?" asked Beverly.
Von Barwig looked at him. "Not any," he replied, shaking his head
sadly.
Beverly made no comment, but he made a mental note. It was not his
intention at that moment at least to acquaint Herr Von Barwig with all
that had passed between Hélène and himself as to the letters that had
failed to reach their destination.
"Didn't receive one, eh?"
"No, not one," said Von Barwig, in a low voice. "Has she written?" he
asked falteringly.
Beverly made no reply, but thought a moment.
"How many letters have you sent Miss Stanton?" he asked.
Von Barwig hesitated. "Perhaps--perhaps some five or six," he said
apologetically.
"Hum!" commented Beverly, "five or six, eh? How many times have you
called during, say, the past month?"
Von Barwig shook his head; he could not remember. "Perhaps twenty,
perhaps thirty times."
"And she was always out?" queried Beverly.
"Yes," said Von Barwig sorrowfully, "always!"
"Whom did you see?"
"Mr. Joles," came the ready reply.
"Every time you called?"
"Yes, I--I think so!"
Beverly Cruger looked at Von Barwig a few moments and knitted his brows
thoughtfully. "It's damn queer," he said, after a pause.
"Has she written any letter to me? It did not reach me, that I am
sure," began the old man.
"That's all right. Now let me give you Miss Stanton's message! She
would like you to be at her home at four o'clock this afternoon. Can
you manage it?"
Von Barwig did not trust himself to reply. He could only nod his head
affirmatively.
"I'm glad I came up; awfully glad!"
Beverly arose from his seat and held out his hand to Von Barwig.
"Good-bye! Be on time, won't you?" he said.
Von Barwig smiled. "Yes, I'll be on time," he said joyfully.
The look in the old man's face went to Beverly Cruger's heart and he
showed his sympathy as he shook hands with him again. He hurriedly
passed through the group of children who had gathered to look at the
not too familiar spectacle of a hansom cab waiting at the door of Miss
Husted's establishment.
Von Barwig will always remember how wearily the hours dragged along
until the time of his appointment uptown came. Finally they did pass,
and though it lacked several minutes of the hour of four, Von Barwig
walked up the stone steps of Mr. Henry Stanton's house on Fifth Avenue
and Fifty-seventh Street.
There was no change in the expression of Mr. Joles's face to denote
that he had received imperative instructions from Miss Stanton to admit
Herr Von Barwig the moment he called. Nor did Mr. Joles appear to
think it at all curious that young Mr. Cruger should happen to be in
the hallway just as the music master came in at the door. His face
displayed no emotion whatever when that young gentleman came forward
and led the old man upstairs to Miss Stanton's room. Neither Mr.
Cruger nor the music master saw the pale face of Mr. Stanton's
secretary, Ditson, peering over the staircase at them. But a moment
later a telegram was sent to Mr. Stanton, telling him that there was an
urgent necessity for him to come home at once. Curiously enough at
about the same time Mr. Stanton received this telegram, he also
received a letter from his daughter begging him to come home as soon as
he could, as her mail had been tampered with and she strongly suspected
Joles of acting in a most deceitful manner for reasons she could not
fathom. It was because she expected her father that she acted under
Beverly's advice and did not mention the subject to Joles, nor even to
Herr Von Barwig until her father had instituted an inquiry.
The meeting between Von Barwig and his pupil was marked by no special
display of emotion or even more than ordinary interest; for Von Barwig
had steeled himself for the occasion. They greeted each other
cordially, but it was only with the greatest self-control that he
managed to conceal his delight at seeing her once more. Again occurred
the formal presentation of the little bunch of violets; again the
casual remarks about the weather.
"You are not angry?" asked Hélène tenderly.
Von Barwig dared not reply; he could only smile and look at her in
silence. After a pause he ventured to say:
"I have offended Mr. Joles's feelings. I am sorry!" Hélène held up a
warning finger, indicating her desire to keep silence on that subject,
at least for the present.
"Later on!" she said. "I intend to take up the subject with my father
when he returns."
Von Barwig watched himself closely. He was determined to make no more
mistakes, nor to yield to any temptation to give way to his feelings in
the slightest degree.
"You have practised since I--during my absence?" he asked, assuming a
sternness he by no means felt, and that she saw through at once.
"Yes, _maestro_," she replied meekly. "I have practised every day.
I've really made great progress, _caro maestro_!" and she laughed
softly.
"We shall see," said Von Barwig, with a critical frown on his face. He
was a little self-conscious. He knew his own weakness, his temptation
to become sentimental, and he had to watch himself continually to
prevent his emotional nature from getting uppermost. This
self-restraint made him slightly ill at ease, and Hélène noticed it.
"You are strangely quiet this afternoon," she said. "I should have
thought you would have had a great deal to tell me." Von Barwig merely
looked at her.
"Come," said he, "we must get to work!"
"You did not receive a single line from me?" she asked as they neared
the end of the lesson. "What must you have thought?"
"What right have I to think?" replied Von Barwig. "I am only a
teacher! There are so many. I thought perhaps you had replaced me."
"Don't talk like that, please," said Hélène quickly, and shutting the
piano up with a bang, she arose. "You know that I esteem you very
highly," and she stopped suddenly. "I am going to find out all about
these stolen letters and father will punish the culprit. He is very
strict in these matters; he always punishes the guilty."
"But it is over and done now, so why punish any one?" began Von Barwig.
Hélène shook her head.
"It hasn't begun yet," she said, ringing the bell. Denning answered
it. "Send Joles please," she said.
Denning bowed and a little later Joles appeared.
"Herr Von Barwig, my music master, will be here at three o'clock
to-morrow afternoon. You will please admit him at once."
"Yes, madam," and Joles bowed his head rather lower than usual.
Von Barwig took leave of his pupil, appearing not to notice her
outstretched hand, but merely bowing to her as he said good-bye. Joles
opened the front door for him and Von Barwig looked at him pityingly.
His triumph over the servant was so complete that he felt sorry for him.
"Perhaps you did not mean to keep back the letters," said Von Barwig to
him in a low, sympathetic voice.
Joles looked at him in blank astonishment.
"You have perhaps a family to support," went on Von Barwig. "I will
ask Mr. Stanton to forgive you."
"Sir!" said Mr. Joles, with some slight show of indignation, "I do not
understand you."
Von Barwig looked at the man a moment, and seeing that it was useless
to discuss the matter with him he walked slowly down the stone steps,
wondering what it all meant.
On the following morning Mr. Stanton arrived home. He appeared to be
in very high spirits. Hélène could not remember when her father had
been so light-hearted and gay. She wanted to tell him about the
suppression of her letters, of Joles's contempt for her orders, and his
lies about Von Barwig, but these were matters that evidently did not
interest Mr. Stanton, for he paid very little attention to her
complaints.
"It is your birthday," he said, "let no unpleasant features mar the
day! See, I have not forgotten!" and Mr. Stanton produced a box that
came from the most fashionable and most expensive jewelry establishment
in America. "A trifle," he said. "Put it with your other gifts and
show it to your friends when they come this afternoon."
Hélène opened the box. Accustomed as she was to beautiful jewels, she
could only gasp. Within it was a magnificent pearl necklace,
beautifully graded, with colour matching to perfection.
"A trifle!" she repeated. "Father, it's beautiful!" She wanted to
throw her arms around his neck, to kiss him for his bountiful gift, but
something in his manner checked her, so she stifled the impulse and
contented herself with holding up her face. Mr. Stanton kissed her
coldly and Hélène drew back. It was an instinctive repulsion and she
could not help showing it; he, on his part, appeared not to notice it.
"I will inquire into the matter of your letters being tampered with,"
he said, "although I am confident that you will find that you are
labouring under some mistake. Joles is as honest as the day. What
could be his motive?"
Hélène was silent. Her father did not pursue the subject.
"The Crugers are coming to-day," he said finally.
"Indeed?" said Hélène, somewhat surprised. "Beverly is coming, I
believe; but I did not know his father and mother were."
"I informed the Crugers that I had returned to town, and that I should
be very pleased to see them this afternoon. I told them it was your
birthday and--" He paused, saying in a more decided tone:
"It is my intention to urge an immediate marriage, Hélène." He spoke
with an effort. "I may be called away at any moment, and----"
Hélène noticed that her father looked pale and worried and decidedly
ill at ease.
"I shall esteem it a great favour if you will not interpose any
objection to my project for this marriage. I have asked several of our
friends here to-day, and I have given them to understand that the date
of the marriage would be announced. It is your birthday, so it will be
a double event, as it were." He paused and looked at her.
"Do as you think best!" she said finally. She felt it was useless to
contend with him. For some reason or other he wanted an early
marriage; so be it!
"You have asked several friends," she said. "Have you asked any of my
mother's people?"
"No," replied Mr. Stanton abruptly.
"Mrs. Cruger said she hoped some day to meet some of my mother's
relations. Father, how is it I know nothing of her or her people?
What is the mystery about her? Every time cards are sent out from this
house for any function I am always reminded that there is not one of
her family to come to this house. On an occasion like this I should
have thought----"
"She had no relatives," interrupted Mr. Stanton, "or I should have
asked them. Please discontinue the subject; it is by no means a
pleasant one. Good God, what a girl you are! I come to you with a
gift fit for a princess; and you, you ungrateful----"
Mr. Stanton looked at her with a look of intense anger, almost of
hatred; then turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Hélène returned to her room. She was quite thoughtful. "An early
marriage! Yes, the sooner the better!" She almost threw the necklace
among the many gifts that had been sent her. She wished her father had
not given it to her. It was evidently not in her to express the
gratitude he deserved and she was angry with herself that she was not
more grateful to him.
That afternoon when Von Barwig was admitted to her presence he saw a
pile of boxes, flowers, jewelry--gifts of all sorts on the piano. He
noticed also that the dolls were on the outside of the cabinet, instead
of inside, where she usually kept them.
"It's my birthday," she said in explanation. "I've been having a good
time with my dolls." She smiled as she saw that he was holding out a
little bunch of violets.
"For you!" he said.
"You must really stop this sort of thing, sir, or I shall be very
angry!" But she took them and pressed them to her face.
"They look very meagre among all this great horticultural display,"
said Von Barwig regretfully.
"They came from the heart and I love them," she said as she fastened
them in her corsage.
"Well, now we begin," he said as he took out the lead pencil that he
always used as a baton. "There must be progress to-day."
He opened the piano and she sat down and looked at the music he placed
there for her. He had chosen a well-known exercise, a Czerny; not a
difficult one, but requiring some technique to play with precision.
"Come, begin!" and she rattled off at a 6-8 allegretto, the music which
was intended to be played in three-quarter andante.
"Very pretty," commented Von Barwig, "very pretty indeed, but you
finish before you commence!"
"That's the rate at which I'm thinking," said Hélène. "When I think
rapidly I play rapidly. My thoughts can only be described as _presto_."
"That's rather hard on the composer, Miss Stanton. Come, I count for
you! One, two, three. One, two, three; One, two, three. The fingers
should be little hammers, so! One, two, three. Dear young lady, this
is not a thumb exercise; it is for the fingers."
"Am I playing with my thumbs?" she asked.
"Come; please, please!" he entreated.
"I can't refuse when you plead so hard," she said.
"One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted monotonously.
"You like me, don't you?" she asked irrelevantly, a mischievous smile
on her face. Von Barwig tried to look stern but failed ignominiously.
"Please attend," he said. "One, two, three; one, two, three. Ah, you
play so unevenly! Sometimes you have the touch of an artist, at
another you make bungles."
"Bungles?" repeated Hélène, laughing. "What are they?"
"One, two, three; not six-eighth, dear lady, not six-eighth! So! One,
two, three! one, two, three."
"Did I show you my new necklace?" she asked as she played on.
Von Barwig shook his head. "One, two, three," was all she could elicit
from him.
"Father gave it to me; to-day is my birthday."
"Your birthday; so?" said Von Barwig, still marking time. "Your
birthday?" he repeated.
"Yes, mio maestro; I am nineteen to-day."
"Nineteen! One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. Then after
a pause, "nineteen?"
She looked up, he was still counting and beating time with the lead
pencil as a baton. But there was a far-away look in his eyes, as if he
were trying to recall something. "Nineteen to-day; nineteen to-day!"
he repeated, as if he had not quite realised what she said.
"One, two, three; one, two, three." Was there a break in his voice?
"Nineteen to-day!" Then he looked at her as she played.
"Where were you born?" he asked suddenly.
"In Leipsic," she replied carelessly.
Von Barwig stopped counting, his baton poised in the air.
"In Leipsic!" he repeated hoarsely. "In Leipsic? She--would have been
nineteen to-day. Ach Gott, Gott!"
Hélène turned and looked at him.
"One, two, three; one, two, three," chanted the music master. He dared
not let her see his agitation. "What does it mean? How can it be?
Good God, how can it be?" His brain was in a whirl; the possibilities
came to him in an overwhelming flood.
"You really must see that pearl necklace," said Hélène, "and some of
the other presents are very beautiful. Do look at them!"
"One, two, three; one, two, three," came in monotonous tones from the
old man. Completely gone was his sense of rhythm now. "One, two,
three; one, two, three," he continued, trying to collect his scattered
thoughts. "Does it mean that she is my--my-- Oh, God! I must be mad,
crazy! Barwig, Barwig, pull yourself together, for God's sake; or you
lose her again." One, two, three; one, two, three seemed to be the
only safe ground for him to tread on!
Hélène felt that he was not following the music, for her fingers
strayed idly over the keys, playing snatches of different melodies, a
fact which he apparently did not notice.
"The necklace is over there," she said.
"Yes, yes," he gasped, going in the direction she pointed. "One, two,
three; one, two, three. It is beautiful; beautiful!" He scarcely
looked at it.
"Did you ever see my dolls? I don't think I ever showed them to you.
They're over there in the cabinet."
"Your dolls? Yes, I look at them!" he said. He was glad of an
opportunity to escape observation. After a while his mind became calm
enough for him to be able to realise what he was thinking, and the
urgent necessity for him to conceal from her his mad folly. Nineteen
to-day, born in Leipsic, the daughter of the rich millionaire; yet, on
the other hand, the image of his own lost Hélène, born on the same day,
at the same place and bearing the same name. It was all so consistent
and yet so contradictory! What could it mean? Was it a phantasy of
his brain, a dream? It seemed to him that he had once witnessed just
such a scene as was taking place at that moment. Surely it had
occurred before! He was now picking up first one doll, then another,
but he did not see them----
"One, two, three; one, two, three;" he said pathetically, trying to
control his thoughts. He realised that he was counting "up in the
air," so to speak, but he was afraid of betraying himself. "If she
suspected that I dared to think that she was my own Hélène, she'd turn
me from the house," he thought.
"I've kept all these old dolls since I was a little baby; even my
little German doll is there," said Hélène as she played on.
Von Barwig took up the dolls, one by one. "Your German doll?" he
repeated.
"Yes, the one I had in Leipsic. It's a queer little sawdust affair,
but I love it to pieces. It always reminds me of my mother. Do you
know what I am playing?" but Von Barwig did not hear her.
"The little German doll," he repeated. "The one she had in Leipsic."
"I heard this at your house the night we first met," went on Hélène,
playing dreamily. "It's a beautiful melody; it has so much sentiment
in it, so much pathos, but oh, isn't it sad," and she sighed deeply.
Was it illusion, too, that the ghost of his long-forgotten symphony
should be played by the girl at the piano there, who so resembled his
own lost loved one? Was it illusion that he should recognise that
little doll, her doll, as the doll with which his own child, his own
Hélène, had played so long ago?
Von Barwig did not start as he picked up this mute evidence of the
truth; he was almost prepared for it. It was as if he knew she was his
own, and yet did not know it.
"That eye was never mended after all," he said in a pathetic, broken
voice, and as he spoke the whole scene of years gone by came back to
him. He saw once more his little girl pleading with him to mend the
doll with the broken eye.
Von Barwig was quite calm now. He had grasped a certainty at last; he
knew now that he did not dream. He looked over at the piano. The girl
felt deeply the music that she was playing, for it responded to
something in her own nature; and so interested was she at this moment
that she almost forgot his presence. Tears filled his eyes as he gazed
at her longingly, lovingly.
"Little heart! Ach, lieber Gott, my little Hélène; my little baby!
How long, how long!" he murmured, smothering his emotion, but looking
now at her, now at the little German doll clutched tightly in his hand.
[Illustration: "I want you to come with us?"]
After a while a feeling of great peace came upon him. His mission was
ended; he had found her at last. His longing heart had reached its
haven.
"That's the doll my mother loved best," said Hélène, without pausing in
her playing. "She loved to play with that doll and me."
He, too, was thinking of her mother. Was it telepathy that she should
think the very thought that was uppermost in his mind?
"There's a portrait of her in the next room," and she pointed to the
door off the main room. "It was painted by an artist here in New York
three years before she died."
Von Barwig dared not trust himself to speak. He silently opened the
door and looked. "Elene, Elene!" he murmured in a low voice. He stood
there some time gazing at the portrait of his dead wife, and his eyes
were swimming with tears. "Yes, there she is," he said, his low, sad
voice scarcely audible through the music. "Elene! Ach, Gott! dead,
dead! Better so; better--so----"
He closed the door gently. As he did so a tear ran down his cheek and
dropped on the little German doll. "I baptise it," he said with a
smile, and then he sighed deeply.
The feeling of deep, unsatisfied longing died out of his heart and from
that moment a sense of great freedom took possession of him. He looked
over at his beloved Hélène. She was still rhapsodising on the piano,
utterly unconscious of the great struggle going on in the heart of her
music master. What could he offer her? Should he ruin all her
prospects? Had he a home fit for her to come to?
These thoughts surged through his mind as he looked at her. His first
great impulse was to tell her who he was and take her to his heart, but
with a supreme effort he controlled himself. He had so often pictured
the scene of his first meeting with his child that it seemed almost as
if he had been through this crisis before, but he had never dreamed
that she would be occupying such a high station in life, never dreamed
that to make his relationship known would ruin her prospects, and
perhaps her happiness. This realisation gave him a perspective of the
situation and he resolved for the sake of her future not to betray
himself. He walked slowly to the piano, and stood behind her a few
moments, then suddenly he lost control of himself and took her hands in
his.
"What is it?" she said, in some surprise, but with no tinge of anger in
her voice.
"You slurred," he faltered, not daring to look her in the face, for
fear his great love would show itself.
"You mustn't slur--please," he murmured apologetically.
"Did I slur?" she asked. "Well, I assure you, it was unconscious. I
didn't mean to do it."
"You are very happy here?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, surprised at the irrelevancy of the question.
He was now stroking her hair with his gentle, loving hand.
"You have everything in the world, everything?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, scarcely conscious of his meaning.
"And you are happy?" he repeated.
"Why shouldn't I be?" she said. "I suppose I have everything to make
me."
She stopped playing. This seemed to bring Von Barwig to a sense of his
surroundings.
"Come," he said. "We must work! To the lesson! One, two, three; one,
two, three."
He could not resist the impulse. He leaned over and again grasped her
hands in his. She looked up at him, this time in utter surprise.
"You were slurring again, slurring again," he said, frightened at his
lack of self-control.
"Was I, indeed?" said Hélène. "Well, you'll have to punish me severely
if this goes on."
"One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. His voice was choked
with emotion, and he could barely see for his tears.
"No, no; I could not punish you. I could not put one straw in your
way--only--I want to meet your father. Yes," he said in a more decided
tone, "I want to meet your father! One, two, three; one, two, three."
Whenever Von Barwig wanted to conceal his real feelings he counted.
"I've gone into the 4-4 exercise," commented Hélène.
"Yes, yes! One, two, three, four," counted Von Barwig timidly. "One,
two, three, four; yes, I want to meet him." Then he added almost
savagely, "I must meet him!"
The lesson was interrupted by Denning.
"If you please, miss, will you come down in the library?"
"What is it, Denning?"
"Mr. Stanton wishes to see you at once, miss," said Denning in a low
voice, so that Von Barwig could not hear.
"My father?" repeated Hélène. "Please don't go till I return, Herr Von
Barwig," and Hélène left the music master alone.