[Illustration: "She is not guilty! No; it is I--I--I!"]
"_You_ who took the ring!" said the astonished woman. "How utterly
absurd! You have not been in my house." She was so amazed by his
confession, which, she knew, could not have the least foundation,
that, for the moment, she forgot to pose, either as an injured
benefactress or as an avenging nemesis.
Now Herr Kreutzer smiled. Having determined on the sacrifice, he was
delighted by this first error in her argument. "Yes, Madame," he said,
quite truthfully, "I _have_ been at your house. I called while you
were driving. M'riar will tell you. She went with me. I called there
to tell Anna that I should expect her here, this afternoon. A servant
showed me to her room--showed M'riar and me both to her room. I can
prove all of this by M'riar--by your own servants, Madame. I waited
for her, for a time, there in her room, and, as I walked to and fro, I
saw, through an open door, upon a table--that jewel-box."
Mrs. Vanderlyn was looking at him in complete astonishment. Even in
her artificial soul there rose some admiration for the man who would
confess to felony, rather than submit his child to suffering.
"And you--," she cried.
He bowed before her, almost as he had, in bygone days, bowed low
before an appreciative audience. Was not this, as much as ever any
solo on the flute had been, a triumph of high art? And more! Was it
not the triumph of his love for Anna over, first, this hard-souled,
little-minded Mrs. Vanderlyn, and, second, the last selfish impulse
lingering within his own unselfish soul?
"I am very, very poor, Madame," he said. "I am only a poor
flute-player. Things have not gone well with me since I have been in
your so great, so glorious country. No; they have gone very far from
well with me. If they had not gone most ill do you imagine that I ever
would have let my Anna go to you as your companion? Do you not imagine
that it cut my soul to have her separate from me, that it cut my pride
to have to tacitly admit that I was quite unable to provide for her?
Yes, Madame; it cut both soul and pride. But I am very poor. What
could I do? I am so poor that always I have little to wear--see,
Madame, this old suit is all that I possess! It prevents me, possibly,
from getting better wages than I might get if I were not so shabby.
Often, also, I do not have enough to eat. That, Madame, is true,
although my Anna does not know it. Well, glittering in that little box
upon the dresser, when I was there at your house, I saw so much
comfort, so much happiness."
The old man's art had won, indeed. He had quite convinced the woman
that it had been he and not his daughter who had stolen the diamond.
She was not exactly disappointed, although it robbed the crime of one
of its most dramatic elements--ingratitude. She was being quite as
well diverted by the old man's dignity and calm as she would have been
by his poor Anna's wild, hysterical grief. She was, perhaps, she
thought, a very lucky woman. She had not only had a valuable diamond
stolen, which, of itself, was entertaining, in a way, but she had
recovered it through such a strange experience as would furnish food
for tales to be told in boudoirs and over tea-cups for three months.
"So it really was you!"
"Yes, yes; have I not told you?"
There was an inconsistency in this affair, however, and Mrs. Vanderlyn
thought herself a veritable Sherlock Holmes as she pounced on it.
"But that note from Anna?" she protested.
Kreutzer had been thinking of that note from Anna, and, for a time,
had found the obstacle a hard one to surmount. At length, and in good
time to meet the question, he had, however, arranged an explanation,
which, if not too carefully looked into, would seem reasonable.
"Oh, of course," said he. "You mean the note about her going away?
Why, that is easily to be understood. When she came I told her that I
have had luck. I told her that we have much money and we go to
Germany, at once. I was afraid that if she went back to your house
there would arise suspicions, so I said she must not go, but must be
content with just the note, alone, for her goodbyes. She did not wish
to do this, but consented, at the last, because I ordered her to do
it."
Mrs. Vanderlyn was now entirely convinced. He had made the case
against himself so black she could not doubt it; but she determined
that if he thought he would gain clemency in payment for the frankness
of his full confession he would find himself to be mistaken. It was
her duty as a member of society, she told herself, to see to it that
the guilty poor who prey upon the helpless rich should not pass on
unpunished.
"I understand," she said, "you are the guilty one. Your daughter is
quite innocent of this. It may be chance, alone, that keeps her so.
With such a father--but I will be merciful and will not show you what
a vile inheritance of wickedness you have prepared for the poor child.
Your conscience will do that, if you have any conscience. While you
are in prison you will have that to reflect upon."
He was dismayed. The ring had been returned. Would she still--"I--I
must go to prison?"
"Why, certainly. Don't you see how necessary that is? What would
happen to society if thieves were left unpunished?"
"Thief!" The word fell on his ears with tragic force. A thief in
prison! Was this to be the end of all his striving? Were the high
hopes and ambitions of his splendid youth to end, at length, behind
the bars of a thief's cell? Ah, those happy, bygone days, when with
unbounded hope and confidence he had promised all things to the lovely
creature he had wooed and won and wed in that toy village far away in
the Black Forest! What was their fruition! Unhappiness, disgrace and
exile for her loveliness, and finally a child for whom she paid the
supreme price of death. His promises, breathed at her bedside of
unwavering care, unfaltering devotion, unfailing happiness for the wee
baby in the years to come--how had he kept them? Poverty, distress,
privation. With such commodities had he redeemed those promises, and,
finally, had driven the girl, naturally as sweet-souled as an angel,
as pure as the new-fallen snow, to vulgar crime to satisfy, no doubt,
those girlish and quite natural desires which it should have been his
duty and his pleasure to provide for. Oh, he had done well with life!
The soul within him writhed in agony as he reflected on the use which
he had made of it. His heart went sick from shame. And--what would
Anna do without him?
"Ah, yes, Madame; I see," said he. "I see. Society must be protected
from such folk as I. Yes; that is very clear indeed. We menace it. The
place for us is where stone walls surround us--to protect society;
locks hold us--to protect society; death comes quickly to us--to
protect society. I see all that, Madame. I will go to prison as a
punishment, of course. But you will let me see my Anna for a
moment--you will let me say goodbye to Anna? She is here, in the next
room. I had hoped, you see, that I could make you think that prison
was not necessary; I had hoped that I could fool you into thinking
that I was not, very much, a danger to society. But you have found me
out. You realize how terrible I am. When I thought that I could fool
you I had her go to the next room, so that, perhaps, she might know
nothing of it. Now, of course, she will know all, but--you will let me
say goodbye to her? You will wait for me, out here?"
Mrs. Vanderlyn was not too willing, but, as she thought of it, it
seemed quite safe, and she could tell her friends, she rapidly
reflected, that she had been swayed by irresistible impulse of mercy.
That would sound well, told dramatically.
"I suppose so," she said grudgingly. "But any attempt at escape will
be useless. You--"
He looked at her with a sad dignity.
"I shall not try to escape," he said. "I only ask that if it can be
done, as long as it may be possible to do it, my Anna shall not know
about my sin, discovery, disgrace. Let her think, please, Madame, if
you will, that I have gone on a long journey."
This, too, she granted grudgingly. "Oh, very well, if you imagine such
things _can_ be hidden. I won't tell her. Just as you wish."
"You will wait here for me while I say goodbye to her?"
"Well, don't be long."
The old flute-player was turning towards the kitchen door, when a loud
rap upon the hall door halted him.
"I suppose the officer has grown tired of waiting," Mrs. Vanderlyn
explained.
"Come in," said Kreutzer, wonderingly. Few visitors had ever knocked
at his door since he had moved to that tenement.
To Mrs. Vanderlyn's amazement, and his own, the door, when it had
opened, revealed John Vanderlyn. He was very plainly worried. He did
not even stop for greetings, but said, immediately, to his mother:
"Well, mother, what are you doing here?"
Mrs. Vanderlyn was quite as much surprised, apparently, to see him
there, as he was to discover her in the old flute-player's rooms.
"My dear boy!" she cried. "How in the world did you learn that I had
come here? What do you want? Has something happened at the house?"
Her son advanced into the room with a low bow to his host. It was
quite plain that, for some reason, he wished to show Herr Kreutzer
every courtesy; it was plain that he had reason to suspect that,
possibly, his mother had not done so and that this fact worried him.
"The butler heard you give the order to the chauffeur to drive you to
Herr Kreutzer's home," he told his mother briefly. Then, turning to
Herr Kreutzer, he said earnestly: "My dear sir, if my mother has said
anything harsh or disagreeable to you--"
Kreutzer was astonished, but had no complaint to make. His only wish
was, now, to have his opportunity to bid his girl farewell and then to
go to prison, where, as quickly as was possible, he might serve out
whatever sentence was imposed on him. After his release, if the
sentence was not of such duration that it spanned the few short years
of life remaining to him, he would once again work for his Anna and
endeavor to atone to her for the misfortunes which his own
incompetence, he argued, had oppressed her with.
"Your mother," he assured the youth, so that the situation might not
be prolonged, "has been polite. Your mother has been most polite."
The young man, with an expression of relief upon his face, turned
then, to his mother. "Tell me, mother, what has brought you here," he
said.
She did not hesitate. The situation did not in the least depress her.
Rather was she somewhat proud of her own part in it. "It's really
painful, my dear boy," said she, "but I flatter myself that I've been
quite a Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you haven't even discovered, yet,
that the diamond ring is gone--is stolen."
He looked at her in sheer amazement. It was clear enough that he did
not, immediately, know what she was talking of. "The ring gone?
Stolen, mother?"
Suddenly he burst into a laugh--so hearty, so spontaneous, so wholly
foreign in its fine expression of good-natured raillery, to the tense
atmosphere of accusation on the part of Mrs. Vanderlyn and supreme
self-abnegation on the part of the old flute-player, which had, until
this time, been vibrant in the room, that it seemed strangely,
shockingly incongruous.
"John!" said his mother, in a tone of stern reproof, demanding of her
son for the victim of misfortune consideration which she, herself, had
scarcely shown, "you must not laugh. It is too heartless--right in
this poor man's presence!"
This stopped his laughter, for it puzzled him. He looked from one of
his companions to the other with an air of most complete bewilderment.
"What's Herr Kreutzer got to do with it?" he asked.
"Why, he has just confessed."
"Confessed to what?"
"That he is guilty."
Kreutzer interrupted earnestly and hastily. He did not wish to have
her even tell her son that Anna ever had been suspected. "Yes," he
assured him earnestly, "I--I alone am guilty."
The youth's evident amazement doubled. Sinking into a chair he looked
from his mother to Herr Kreutzer, from Herr Kreutzer to his mother,
with an expression of bewilderment so genuine that, for the first
time, his mother was a bit in doubt about her cleverness, for the
first time Herr Kreutzer wondered if there might not, somewhere, be a
ray of hope for him and for his Anna.
"Guilty of what?" said Vanderlyn, at length. "Of being the father of
the dearest girl in all the world, who has promised to become my
wife?"