It was midwinter nearly a year later. The cold was the severest in the
memory of any inmate of the Houston Street establishment, including
Miss Husted herself. Everything was frozen solid. It was nearly as
cold inside the house as it was outside, greatly to Miss Husted's
dismay, for added to the increased expenditure for coal, the services
of the plumber to thaw out frozen water and gas pipes were in constant
requisition. Houston Mansion was a corner house with an open space
next door, and the biting north winds on three sides of the unprotected
old walls added greatly to the discomfort and suffering of the "guests"
within. In every sense it was a record breaker. There had already
been three blizzards in the past month and a fourth was now in
progress. It was on the top floor, however, that the extreme severity
of the winter was felt. The cold biting winds howled and wailed over
the roof, circling around the skylight and forcing their way through
the cracked and broken panes of glass. It was impossible to keep the
draughty old hallway warm with the one small stove intended for that
purpose. Pinac, Fico and Poons, huddled together around the fire
bundled up in their overcoats, had to place their feet on the stove to
keep them warm or blow on their fingers and walk about the room to keep
their blood in circulation.
At this time Pinac and Fico were playing at Galazatti's for their
dinners, being unable to obtain more profitable engagements, and Poons
was playing in an uptown theatre. Poons was trying to save enough
money to get married, and neither Pinac nor Fico would touch a penny of
his earnings, although the boy generously offered them all or any part
of his savings to help them tide over until the Spring, when they were
reasonably sure of obtaining lucrative engagements. The men had just
finished their breakfast and Jenny was washing the dishes for them.
"I shall lay a cloth for the breakfast of Von Barwig when he shall wake
up," said Pinac, suiting the action to the word and spreading a red
tablecloth on the rickety wooden table. "His work at the Museum keeps
him so late he must sleep late."
"Sacoroto, the rotten museum he play at, I wish it was dead," growled
Fico.
They knew now that Von Barwig played at a cheap amusement resort on the
Bowery, and that it kept him out till early morning; and they loved him
for it all the more. They knew that necessity, not choice, had driven
him to it. Besides, it made them more akin to him, for it brought him
nearer their own artistic standard, and yet they did not lose one atom
of respect for the old man. Gone was his commanding spirit, and in its
place was a quiet, gentle dignity which called forth respect as well as
love; but above all--love.
"He is sleeping later than usual," said Jenny as she restored the
crockery to its proper place in the cupboard.
"All the strength of the coffee will boil away," murmured Fico.
"Parbleu! we make new coffee for him," replied Pinac.
"He have sleep long enough. I call him," said Fico, tapping lightly on
the door of the lumber room that served Von Barwig as a bedroom.
Receiving no reply, Fico knocked louder. Finally he pushed open the
door. It had no lock on it and the catch was broken. Fico looked into
the room, shook his head and then turned and stared at his friends.
"He have gone up," he said with an anxious look. "You mean he have get
up," suggested Pinac. "Got up!" corrected Jenny. "Yes," replied Fico.
"He is got up and out."
Poons, who had not quite followed the intricacies of the conversation,
went into Von Barwig's room and satisfied himself that his beloved
friend was not there. The three men stared at each other. They said
nothing, but the expression on their faces denoted anxiety. "Where has
he gone?" seemed to be the question each asked silently of the other.
Von Barwig had been very quiet in the past year, so quiet that his
actions seemed to his friends to be almost mysterious. Not that he was
more reserved than usual, but there was a calmness, a resignation to
existing conditions, a listlessness that seemed to them to amount to
almost a lack of interest in life, and this mental attitude on Von
Barwig's part caused them no little anxiety.
"It's such an awful day," said Pinac as he looked out of the window.
"By God, yes!" assented Fico. "Another bliz."
The wind was howling up and down the streets and flurries of snow were
being driven against the windows, banging the shutters to and fro as
the great gusts of wind caught them in their grasp. The iron catch
that held the shutter had long since been torn out by the winter
blizzards, and the constant banging sound grated harshly on the
sensitive ears of the musicians. Poons suffered more than the rest,
and swore roundly in German every time the shutter struck against the
window jamb.
"Jenny," came the shrill voice of Miss Husted up the stairway at the
back of the hall. That lady was more than ever set against her niece's
"taking up with a musician," as she called the love match between Poons
and Jenny. Whenever Miss Husted missed Jenny on the floors below she
invariably found her upstairs talking to young August.
"We were looking for the professor," said Jenny, as her aunt's head
came up into view from the staircase below.
"Looking for the professor! Why, where is he?" asked Miss Husted.
"Surely he hasn't gone out on a day like this! Why, it's not fit for a
dog; not fit for a dog! Oh dear, dear! I'll be worried to death till
he comes back," and Miss Husted pressed Skippy more closely to her and
went down stairs again; not, however, without first sending Jenny to
the floor below, out of the reach of Poons's love-making eyes.
"It is true; he has gone out," said Pinac dolefully, as he looked out
of the window at the blizzard.
Von Barwig had risen very early that morning and dressed himself with
more than his usual care. He had much to do, for on the morrow he was
to depart from the shores of America and return to his old home. He
was going back to Leipsic, and the steamship sailed very early the next
morning. The real cause of his absence at that moment was the fact
that his daughter Hélène was to be married that day, and he desired to
witness the ceremony. Altogether, there was much to be done and little
time to do it in. He had told Mr. Costello the night before that he
was not going to return to the Museum; so that was ended, and his few
clothes were packed in his little portmanteau with the assistance of
Jenny, who was the only one who knew his secret. He also had to go
downtown and buy his steamship ticket and make arrangements with an
expressman to take his trunk, and he felt he must say good-bye to a few
acquaintances before he went away forever. So, in order to complete
all these arrangements in time to get to the church where the wedding
was to take place, he had to get up quite early.
Von Barwig did not mind the cold weather at all. He trudged along the
streets and stamped his feet to keep them warm while he brushed the
snow off his face as it blew under his umbrella. His heart was light,
for he rejoiced that his darling Hélène was going to marry the man she
loved. Her happiness was assured, he thought; besides, he himself was
going to do something. He had a plan of action and he was going to
carry it out. During the last few months he had had a great yearning
to see his old home again, to hear his native language spoken, to hear
the folk songs and familiar German airs sung once more and to look upon
the faces of his fellow-countrymen again. Now that he knew his child
was happy, he felt that he would be content simply to sit placidly in
an obscure corner of the market-place in Leipsic, and watch the ebb and
flow of life as it is lived over there in the beloved Fatherland. He
did not ask to take part in it or to be one with his countrymen; all he
asked was the privilege of watching their life for the few remaining
years of his earthly existence. His pride had completely gone now, and
it caused him not one pang to feel that he had left his native land in
the flush and prime of success and was going to return an old,
broken-down failure. On the contrary, the thought of again walking the
streets of his native land, breathing the atmosphere, and hearing the
voices of his beloved countrymen so lightened his heart that his steps
were almost elastic. He kicked the snow aside with vigour, and jumped
on the street car as if he were a boy. He saluted the conductor with
such a hearty good-morning, that the man looked at him in astonishment.
"You must be feeling pretty good to call this a good morning," said
that functionary, as he collected his fare.
"Back of this awful blizzard is the beautiful sunshine," said Von
Barwig, with a smile.
"Yes, if you can see it!" replied the man, compelled to smile when he
looked into Von Barwig's beaming face. "How far are you going
downtown?" asked the conductor to prolong the conversation. The car
was empty, and Von Barwig's cheery smile encouraged him to talk.
"Fowling Green," replied Von Barwig. "I buy my ticket back to
Germany," he added lightly.
"Ah!" said the man, as if that explained everything. "You're glad to
go back, eh? Most of 'em would never have come if they knew what they
were going to get over here."
Von Barwig shrugged his shoulders and laughed a little.
"If you don't strike it right," went on the car conductor, "it's worse
here than anywhere in the world!" Von Barwig nodded. "There's no room
in America for the man who fails," he added, ringing up a fare with an
angry jerk and then relapsing into moody silence.
After many delays, owing to the packing of the snow on the car tracks,
Von Barwig arrived at the steamship office, bought his ticket, and
commenced his weary journey uptown.
"I shall see her to-day," he thought. "I shall see her. How beautiful
she will look in her white dress and her orange blossoms! He--he--will
give her to her husband. That scoundrel!" Von Barwig's heart sank.
"But she is happy, she is happy!" and this thought sustained him.
[Illustration: Hélène and Beverly find love's haven.]
He had not seen her since the memorable moment in which he had placed
the hand of his beloved pupil in that of her affianced husband and
wished them joy and happiness. He had written to her and told her that
her father, Mr. Stanton, was right; that it would be better that he did
not resume his teaching. He had done this, that her happiness might
not be destroyed by the coming to light of the scandal that had been
dead and buried so many years. He felt it would not be right in the
highest sense for him to expose Stanton merely to gratify his own sense
of revenge. He believed that his child had learned to love Stanton as
her own father; that it would be a cruelty to her to expose him; that
it would rob her of her social position and perhaps of the man she
loved. The girl might even turn on him and hate him for his selfish
indulgence of revenge at the expense of her happiness. At the very
best, he had nothing to offer her, and he knew she would refuse
Stanton's bounty when she learned the truth. Von Barwig had reasoned
it out on these lines, and at every fresh pang of suffering he found
comfort in the false logic that seemed so like truth. It never
occurred to him that Hélène disliked Stanton; that she felt in her
heart that the man was not her father; and that young Cruger would have
married her in spite of a dozen scandals. Furthermore, he did not even
dream that his pupil loved him and grieved for him to such an extent,
that Stanton felt it absolutely necessary to separate them completely
by telling her that her old music master had gone back to Germany and
had died there. The car windows rattled noisily and the bells jangled
monotonously, as the horses tramped through the snow on their way
uptown, but Von Barwig heard them not, for his brain was thronged with
thoughts of his darling Hélène and his impending departure to his own
country. How could he leave those kind hearts in Houston
Street--Jenny, Poons, Miss Husted, Fico, Pinac! What would they all
say?
Von Barwig bought a morning paper and in it he read that his daughter's
marriage was to be attended by a very large and fashionable audience;
that admission to the church was only by personal invitation. Von
Barwig started. How was he to get into the church? He had no card of
invitation. He almost laughed aloud as he thought of his position; her
own father would not see her married because he had no invitation. He
must invent some story to get in, but he must attract no attention. No
one who knew of his association with the family must see him. He dare
not risk a public _exposé_ at the eleventh hour. No, her happiness
must not be clouded even for a moment! But he must get in; he made up
his mind to that.
When Von Barwig arrived at the church there were quite a number of
people gathered there in spite of the inclemency of the weather, for
news of the wedding had been largely heralded forth by the New York
daily papers, owing to the great wealth of Mr. Stanton and the high
social position of the Crugers, and it was looked upon as one of the
great fashionable events of the year.
Thanks to Mr. Stanton's love of display and lavish outlay of money, the
presents had been enumerated, the trousseau described, the names of the
guests published in all the fashionable papers, greatly to Hélène's
annoyance. She would have preferred a quiet little wedding unattended
save by those directly interested in the marriage, but Mr. Stanton
wanted to spend money, and he did, most lavishly. A special orchestra
and tons of flowers were ordered, notwithstanding that it was
midwinter, and every prominent social and political person available
had been invited to attend. In consequence, a platoon of police was
needed to keep the crowds back, and when Von Barwig arrived, a long
line of carriages had already formed at the church door.
A policeman barred his way when he attempted to enter without a ticket.
"Sorry, sir; but we must obey orders," said the man in uniform. It was
the same at all the doors, and Von Barwig soon saw that it was useless
to attempt to get in without a ticket. He stood there for a few
moments trying to think what he should do, when he saw several men
carrying violins and other musical instruments going through a small
side door on the side street, off Fifth Avenue, that led into the
vestry situated at the end of the great church. "I am a musician; I go
in with the musicians," said Von Barwig, and he followed the men,
unchallenged and unquestioned through the passage leading to the vestry
and from thence into the body of the great church. "For the first time
in my life," thought Von Barwig, "my profession is of service to me!"
The great church was beautifully decorated with flowers, and the guests
were now beginning to arrive. Von Barwig, unobserved, crept silently
to the darkest and farthest end of the church. He seated himself in a
great pew on the centre aisle, where he could see without being seen.
The church was now filling up; it was a splendid sight. The orchestra
and the organ played some selections; finally the wedding march from
Lohengrin sounded, and every one arose to get a peep at what was
happening in the centre aisle. Von Barwig craned his neck to see. The
bride had entered the church and was coming up the aisle on the arm of
Mr. Stanton, her supposed father, preceded by the ushers. The
bridegroom and his best man awaited them at the chancel steps. At the
sight of Stanton Von Barwig felt his heart beat thickly. This man had
broken up his home, robbed him of his wife and child, and now posed as
the girl's father. What a splendid revenge he could take by publicly
denouncing him in the midst of his friends. Von Barwig quickly stifled
any impulse in that direction. He had come to witness his daughter's
happiness, not to mar it by the demonstration of publicly unmasking a
villain. He sat back in his seat and watched the proceedings with
breathless interest. The marriage ceremony proceeded. The old
clergyman who read the service, unlike most of his class, read it with
feeling, as if he understood the meaning of the words he was uttering.
So clear, so natural was his utterance that Von Barwig followed every
word of it, scarcely realising that the man was reading and not merely
speaking. When he came to the question, "Who giveth this woman to be
married to this man?" the clergyman looked around the church as if
expecting some one in the vast congregation to rise and say, "I do."
There was no answer. It seemed to Von Barwig that the minister was
looking directly at him, and not only looking at him, but tacitly
asking a reply. Once more in compelling tones came the momentous
question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" Von
Barwig was now quite positive that the clergyman was addressing himself
directly to him, and he felt that the moment had come to declare the
truth to the whole world.
As in a dream one makes no effort to connect the present with the past
or future or to account in any way for the logic of events, so did Von
Barwig make no effort to understand how or why his secret was known to
the clergyman. He simply accepted the fact as it appeared to him and
made no effort to resist the impulse to rise and declare himself. So
when Henry Stanton uttered the words, "I do," almost at the same moment
from the back of the church came the loud, deep voice of Von Barwig
quivering with emotion, "I do, I do!" Everybody arose and looked
around. For a moment there was great consternation in the church.
Cries of "Hush, hush!" came from every quarter and several of the
ushers came over to the pew in which Von Barwig sat. At the sound of
Von Barwig's voice, Hélène started as if she had received an electric
shock. Beverly thought she was going to faint and supported her with
his arm.
Hélène recognised in a moment that it was the voice of her old music
master, the man she had been told was dead and buried months ago. She
looked quickly at Mr. Stanton for an explanation. "He is not dead;
what does it mean?" she asked. "Go on with the ceremony," was all the
reply she could get from Mr. Stanton. The clergyman went on quietly
with the marriage service. Von Barwig, as soon as the usher tapped him
on the arm, realised that he had made a dreadful mistake, and sank back
into his seat, trembling with excitement and shame. He had not
intended to do such a thing and could not explain even to himself how
it had happened. The wedding ceremony was now over, the process of
signing and witnessing gone over in the vestry, and in a short while
the bride and bridegroom came down the aisle to the sound of
Mendelssohn's inspiring wedding march. As they passed by the pew in
which Von Barwig crouched to avoid recognition, some of the roses in
the bride's bouquet fell to the ground almost at his feet. He picked
them up and tenderly kissed them. Apparently unconscious of his
presence, Hélène, surrounded by her friends, passed down the aisle,
down the steps and out into her carriage escorted by Beverly. They
were both radiantly happy.
"It's a happy marriage," said society with an approving nod.
"It's a happy marriage," alike said friends and relations.
"It's a happy marriage," said the stranger outside as the blushing
bride stepped into her carriage and the smiling bridegroom closed the
door shutting them out from view.
"It's a happy marriage," echoed Von Barwig as he trudged through the
snow on his way home. "It's a happy marriage. Thank God for that!"