"Has she not come then, yet, my child?" said Kreutzer to the busy
M'riar, as he returned. He had thought that Anna might have reached
the tenement by that time, for he had gone out a second time and made
a number of delightful, although meagre purchases.
"No signs," said M'riar. "Yn't see a sign of 'er. But hit cawn't be
long before she'll be 'ere, can it?"
"No, M'riar; not long."
The place was poorly furnished. Marks of poverty, indeed, were
everywhere; but upon the little table with its oil-cloth cover, soon
began to show, as he brought package after package from his pockets,
an array of goodies which amazed M'riar greatly. From the little
gas-pipe chandelier which hung above the table (fly-specked and badly
rusted before M'riar's busy hands had done their best to polish it,
and still uncouth in its plain iron and sharp angles), he hung a
little wreath of evergreen. Out of a package, with the utmost care, he
produced a frosted cake.
"See, M'riar!" he cried.
"Hi sye!" said M'riar, examining it with distant care as if she feared
that it would either break or bite. "Won't she be took haback?"
"And," said Herr Kreutzer, delving busily in a pocket of his long,
limp, overcoat, "a bottle of good wine."
"My heye!" said M'riar, awed and gaping admiration. "She _will_ be
took haback!"
"And, see again?" said Kreutzer, taking other treasures out of
packages and pockets, including a roast fowl, and celery and other
fixings. "It is not often, lately, that I have my Anna with me. When
she comes, then we must do what we can do to make her welcome." He
might have added that it was not often that a little stroke of luck
brought him in money for a celebration such as this, but did not.
"_Such_ a feast!" said M'riar.
"Ah, it is something," said the flute-player. "It is little I can do.
I earn so little in this country--less, even, than I earned in London;
and here all things cost so much--_more_, even, than they cost in
London."
M'riar went to the window, after having seen the good things, while
his hands went to his pocket and brought from it the door-key and a
pocket-knife. He laughed a little bitterly. "The little feast has cost
the last cent in my pocket! When night comes I must walk back to the
Garden!... Well what matter? Anna is not suffering, and to-day she
will be happy here with me."
"Hi, she's comin'," M'riar screamed and dashed out of the room.
Herr Kreutzer gazed after her with a wide smile of toleration. She had
not been a nuisance; she had been very useful. "I worried when we
found her on the ship," said he, "and here she is, my housekeeper,
while Anna is more happy in the mansion of the Vanderlyns! So things
occur as we do not expect."
There came to him the sound of chattering voices on the stair. He
hurried to the door.
"Anna, Anna!" he called into the hallway.
An instant later and she sprang up the last flight and ran into his
opened arms. "Father!" she cried happily. There was an unwonted flush
upon her cheeks, a new, soft glow within her eyes, a certain subtle
dignity about her bearing which he failed to note, but which she knew
was there and which the keener eyes of M'riar saw and were much
puzzled by.
"Father!" she cried again, and held him in so close a clasp that his
face reddened quite as much because she choked him as because his
heart was beating high with happiness at sight of her.
"Come, come," said he, and led her to a chair by the window which
commanded a small vista of back-yards--the only glimpse of
out-of-doors the tiny tenement apartment offered. "My liebling! My
little Anna! It is good to hold you so, again!" He clasped her in his
arms.
"'Yn't it beautiful!" M'riar muttered, gazing at them. "W'ite as snow
'is 'air looks, w'en 'ers that is that dark, is hup hagainst it close,
like that!"
"Dear old father!" Anna cried, as she drew back. She took him by the
shoulders, now, and, with her beautifully modelled, firm young arms,
held him away from her so that she might examine him. With loving
scrutiny she studied every line of the old face. Instantly she noted
the weary droop of tired eyelids. "Are you sure you are quite well?"
He smiled. "Always I am well, when you are with me. Always well when
you are with me, Anna."
"You look tired. Ah, it is not easy for you when you play--"
His heart stood still for half-a-dozen beats. Could it be possible
that she had learned how he had lied to her about the place in which
he played? Had she learned that it was not a park of elegant
importance?
"It is a fine, a splendid park," he interrupted. "Some day I shall
take you there, with M'riar, and shall show you. Not at once. At
present I must be quite sure to please and so must play without
distraction. Your presence might confuse me, so that I could not give
satisfaction; but, someday, when things are a little better--then I
take you with me."
As he lied away her fears his soul was bitterly inquiring what his
daughter who had such respect for him and for his music, would think
if she could hear him as he stood upon a rough-board platform, or sat
beside a cheap piano, pounded by a colored youth who kept a glass of
beer on one end and a cigarette upon the other as he played. What
would Anna think of her old father if she heard him tootle on his
flute, with all the breath which he could muster, the strains of "Hot
Time," an old favorite, or "Waltz Me Around Again, Willie," not quite
so old, but infinitely more offensive than the frank racket of the
negro melody to his sensitive ear? How would her artistic soul revolt
if she should hear his flute--his precious flute!--inquiring if
anybody there had seen an Irishman named Kelly?
"What do they like best, my father?" Anna asked him, still looking
searchingly into his face, as if she saw signs there which did not
reassure her. "Mozart, possibly, or Grieg?"
"I think it is 'An Invitation to the Dance,'" said he, and smiled
again, more sweetly, more convincingly than ever. "'Around, around,
around!'" he muttered, bitterly, sarcastically, as he turned away from
her.
"What, father?"
"That melody, so sweet; those words, so full of lovely sentiment--they
cling in my old mind, my liebschen," said Herr Kreutzer, to cover up
his error. "They what you call it? Keep running in my head--ah,
around, around within my head, my liebschen."
"Somehow, I am af-raid that you do not, really, like the place where
you are playing."
"It is a fine, a splendid park, my Anna," Kreutzer cried in haste. "I
am a grumbler--an old grumbler. My only real cause for complaint is
that I must play so very loud for some" (his heart was sore with a
humiliation of the night before), "while, for others, it is necessary
that I plays so s-o-f-t-l-y--lest my flute disturb their
conversation. I am puzzled, Anna, that is all. Quite all. There is no
cause for you to worry." He placed his hand upon her shoulder, and, as
he sank wearily to the stiff, wooden chair which was as easy as the
room could boast, she dropped to her knees beside him.
Her heart was very full. Vividly she longed to tell him that the love,
of which he had discoursed to her, had not come in the least as he had
said it would--summoned by his counsel after he had searched and found
the man whom he decided would be best for her to marry. No; love had
not approached her logically, rationally, as result of careful thought
by a third party; it had come, instead, as might a burglar, breaking
in; an enemy, making an assault upon an unsuspecting city in the
night. She had yielded up the treasures of the casket of her heart
without a murmur to the burglar; the city had capitulated without
fighting, without even protest. She was sure he would not find it
easy to approve of her selection.
So she was not ready, yet, to tell him; she was not ready to destroy
the happiness of this, their day together, as she feared that such a
revelation must, inevitably.
"Hard times, father!" she said, temporizing. "But perhaps, sometime,
they shall be changed. Perhaps _I_ shall be rich, some day."
"Ah, Anna, no; such thoughts are what they call, up at the park,
the--the--what is it? Ah, I have it--dream of the pipe. Rich we shall
never be, my Anna."
"But it's _so_ hard as it is. Only once-a-while can we be here
together."
"Hard?" said he, and smoothed her hair. "You must not say that. It is
so sweet when once-a-while it comes! It makes me so happy--"
"Dear!"
Depression seized him, now. Fiercely the thought rose in his mind
that while he waited for these meetings with the keenest thoughts of
joy, she, on the other hand, must look forward to them with emotions
much less purely happy. That she was glad to be with him he did not
doubt; he could not doubt; but what a contrast must his poor rooms
offer to the luxurious surroundings of her other days! It would be
only human if she yielded to an impulse to be critical, only human if,
against her will, she felt contempt for his dire poverty. The black
thought filled his soul with bitterness.
"Look," he said, and rose with a sudden gesture almost of despair.
"What must you think of me, my liebschen? Poor little rooms! They are
no place for you. Ah, no; for you the grand and beautiful home of Mrs.
Vanderlyn!"
His scorn of self was written, now, so plainly on his face, in such
fierce lines of deep contempt and loathing, that, as she looked at
him, it frightened her. She, also, rose and lightly clasped her arms
about his neck in an appeal.
"There, all the week," he went on with less virulence, "you have, as
her companion, the happy life I wish for you, Ah, your old father does
not grudge you that, my liebschen! And, after all, you do not falter
in your love. My poverty does not make you forget me--eh?"
"Forget you, father? These hours are pleasantest of all! These hours
with you here in these rooms which you say are 'poor' are far, far
pleasanter to me than any hours at Mrs. Vanderlyn's."
"Ah, so," said he. "Yes, you come back to me and we are happy--very
happy. It is my good luck--much better than I really deserve. Come,
now, come. A little cake, a little wine, in honor of your visit.
M'riar, M'riar--where have you gone, M'riar?"
From the other room the slavey came with reddened eyes.
"'Ere, sir; 'ere Miss." She was snuffling.
"Why, M'riar," said Kreutzer, in dismay! "What is it? Why weep you?"
"Ho, it allus mykes me snivel w'en I sees you two together, that w'y.
Hi cawn't _stand_ it. 'Ow you love! It mykes me _'ungry_. Yuss, fair
'ungry. Nobody ain't hever loved _me_ none--it mykes me 'ungry."
Quick with remorse and sympathy Anna pounced upon her and enfolded her
in a great hug, realizing, for the first time, that, on entering, she
had been too anxious to show her affection for her father, too full of
worry over what she had, that day, to tell him, to remember M'riar.
"_Dear_ M'riarrr!" she said softly. "Dear M'riarrr! We love you. Don't
we father--love her?"
"Yah; sure we love her," Kreutzer answered heartily and patted the
child's head. "We love her much."
"My heye!" said M'riar, happily, her sorrows quickly vanishing. "'Ow
much nicer New York his than Lunnon!"
It was with the grace of an old cavalier that Kreutzer led his
daughter to the table, and called her attention to the little feast he
had prepared.
The small display of goodies would have seemed poor enough had she
compared it to the everyday "light luncheons" at the Vanderlyns', but
she did not so compare it. Back to the old days of modest plenty which
they had known in London, to the days of almost actual need which they
had known in New York City, went her mind, for its comparison, and
thus she found the feast magnificent. With real fervor she exclaimed
above it. Her pleasure was so genuine that the old flute-player was
delighted. "How splendid!" she cried honestly.
Having placed her in her chair he began, at once, in the confusion of
his joy, to cut the cake, ignoring, utterly, the chicken. She did not
call attention to his absent-mindedness.
"It looks almost like a wedding cake!" said she and laughed--but then,
suddenly, there flooded back on her remembrance of the secret she must
tell him before she left the tenement that afternoon. It sobered her.
How would he take the news that she had not been content to wait for
him to bring to her his wonderful "brave gentleman?"
"Ah, you are thinking about weddings!" he said genially, still cutting
at the cake. For an instant she imagined that she had aroused
suspicions, but, quickly, she saw plainly that he was but lightly
jesting. "Have a care, my Anna! Have a care!"
Suddenly her heart was filled with resolution. When would there be a
better time than now in which to tell him her sweet secret? It could
not be that he would be so very angry. His love for her, his longing
that she might be happy, were, she knew, too great for that. And,
later, when he knew Jack Vanderlyn as well as she had come to know
him, he would realize, as she did, that nowhere in the world, not in
the castles of the barons on the Rhine, not in the palaces of kings,
could he or anyone find more genuine gentility than in this free-born
unpretending young American.
"Father!" she said timidly.
"My girl," said he, without the least suspicion that her heart could,
really, be touched by anyone in this cold land of crude democracy,
"you must always come and tell me if your heart begins to flutter like
a little bird. You--"
"Of--course, my father."
The matter had not in the least impressed him. As she turned and
re-turned something in her hand beneath the table, and tried to rouse
her courage to the point of making full confession, the old man
quietly dismissed the subject.
"Now, a health to you, my Anna," he said gaily and raised high his
glassful of cheap wine. "May the good God give you all the happiness
your father wishes for you! More than that I cannot say, for I wish
you all the happiness in all the world. Ah, when I look at you I am so
full of joy! It is as if sweet birds were singing in my heart.
Wait--you shall hear!"
Forgetting the great feast, as, seized by the impulse to express
himself in the completest way he knew he turned from her with a bright
smile, he crossed the tiny room and took down from the mantlepiece his
flute.
"Ah, play for me!" she cried, delighted, both at the prospect of the
music, which she loved with a real passion, and at the prospect of the
brief reprieve the diversion would afford her from the revelation
which she had to make.
[Illustration: It was as if the "sweet birds singing in his heart" had
risen and were perched, all twittering and cooing, chirping, carolling
upon his lips]
He pretended shy reluctance. "No; in your heart you do not really wish
to hear. You have grown tired of the old flute, long ago."
She laughed and rose and went to him. "Bad boy! He must be teased! I
am _not_ tired of it. To me it is in all the world, the sweetest
music. Must I say more? Come, come, for me!"
"Ah, then--for you!"
He raised the old flute to his lips and settled it beneath the thatch
of whitened hair which covered his large, sensitive mouth. He took a
little breath of preparation. Then he closed his eyes and played.
Such music as came from that flute! It was as if the "sweet birds
singing in his heart" had risen and were perched, all twittering and
cooing, chirping, carolling upon his lips. And all they sang about was
love--love--love--a father's love for his delightful daughter. Sweet
and pure and wholly lovely was the melody which filled the room and
held the charming woman it was meant for spellbound; held the little
slavey from the grime of London as one hypnotized upon her chair; sang
its way out of the window, down into the grimy court between this
dingy tenement and the whole row of dingy tenements which faced the
other street, and made a dozen little slum-bred children pause there
in their play, in wonder and delight. Ah, how Kreutzer played the
flute, that day, for his beloved Anna!
"Ah, when you play," said she, as with a smile, he laid the wonderful
old instrument upon the shelf again, "it is your life, your soul--you
put all into the old flute!"
"Yes, Anna; and to-day it was far more. It was my love for you--that
was the greatest part of it; and there were sweet memories of my
native land." The fervor of his playing, more than the effort of it,
had exhausted him. He sat down somewhat wearily, with a long sigh.
"But we will not speak of our native land, my Anna," he said sadly.
"Ach! I am a little tired." He held his arms out to her. "But
happy--very happy," he said quickly when he saw the look of quick
compassion on her face. "And you?"
The burden of her secret had grown heavy on her heart. It did not seem
a decent thing to wait a moment more before she told it to him.
"I am happy, too--but--but--oh, my father, father!"
She threw herself into his arms, bursting into tears.