THE FAIRY PLAY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
AS the time for the fairy play approached the children grew more and
more eager. Even the elder members of the party were going; the Hoyts,
too, had taken tickets.
"Do let us have our own tickets, mother," begged Jack before they
started. "It seems so nice to really own them, and so much more
important than if some one else gave them in. We will take good care of
them. I'll put mine in my pocketbook, and I'll promise not to lose it."
"It will be to your own sorrow if you do," her mother told her.
"Here it is. Perhaps it is a good plan to let you have this much
responsibility, for it will give you a chance of depending upon your
own wits."
Jack stowed away her ticket safely, giving only stealthy peeps at it
once in a while during the time they were on the street-cars which
would take them to the Gärtnerplatz theatre. At the last moment before
they entered she looked to see if it were there, and held it tightly as
she was about to follow the others. Miss Helen was in front, the older
girls came next, Jean was just ahead of Jack. Suddenly Jack's eye fell
upon a forlorn little figure by the door, wistfully watching the faces
of the many happy children who were entering the door. Jack paused,
and gave a long look at the child to make sure she was the same they
had seen in the cemetery on All Saints day. She had not met her since
the morning she saw her talking to the switch-tender, but she was very
sure that she was not mistaken in believing her to be the one in whom
she and Jean were interested. She stood smiling at the little girl and
received a timid smile in return.
"_Gehen zie_ in theatre?" asked Jack in her best German.
"_Nein_," answered the child.
"_Warum?_" inquired Jack.
"_Ich habe kein billet._"
Jack hesitated but a moment before she thrust her ticket into the hand
of the child who looked astounded. "Here," said Jack, and then she
rushed tumultuously away leaving the child gazing from the ticket to
the fast disappearing figure of the little girl who hurried off.
Jack had a good bump of locality and knew exactly what car to take in
order to return home, and thither she went, not without some regrets
at her impetuous generosity, it must be confessed, but on the whole
quite satisfied with herself. It seemed a very long afternoon, but she
went bravely through it, occupying the time by writing to her friend
Carter Barnwell, and by doing such things as were not encouraged when
her elders were at home. It was a fine opportunity to pick out tunes
on the piano, for example, and to leap from chair to chair pretending
that there was only water between. She could also rummage and dress
up, choosing Nan's frocks for the latter performance, since these
would trail further on the ground. She put a suit of Mary Lee's on a
pillow and pretended it was another person while she, herself, was the
Princess Herzlieb, so after all the time did not go slowly.
She was standing by the window watching when the family returned.
"Jack Corner, you are the most surprising child I ever saw," began Nan.
"Oh, but you missed it," cried Jean. "You never saw anything so lovely."
"Hush, Jean," said Mrs. Corner. "Jack, dear, I want to know how it
happened the little girl had your place."
"We were so surprised when she came in," said Mary Lee. "We thought you
were right behind us, and that the little girl had taken the wrong seat
for there were two empty just the other side, though they were filled
later, but no indeed, there was the number all right. You never saw
such an amazed child as she was in all your life. I don't suppose she
had ever been in such a place before."
"Tell us about it, Jack," said her mother taking the child's hands in
hers.
"I saw her standing on the steps watching the people go in, and she
looked so poor and miserable, and I thought of the candle and the
flowers and that maybe she never did have any good times, so I asked
her if she were going in and she said no, she hadn't any ticket, so I
said here, and I gave her mine and ran."
"You impulsive little child," said her mother. "Why, dearie, rather
than have had you give, up the play I would gladly have let you take my
place. Indeed, as soon as we had inquired of the little girl how she
came to have the ticket I did go out to find you, but you were nowhere
to be seen."
Jack looked a little regretful. "What did the little girl say?" she
asked. "What did you all talk to her about?"
"Your Aunt Helen asked if she had found the ticket, for she thought
you must have dropped it. But the little girl said, no, a _mädchen_, a
_gnädiges fräulein_ gave it to her, and then we knew."
Jack turned eagerly to Jean. "Did you ask her name, Jean, and where she
lived?"
"I forgot. I was so excited about the play, but Aunt Helen asked,
didn't she, mother?"
"Yes, her name is Bertha Metzger, and she lives over the other side of
the market. Did I understand you to say, Jack, that you had seen her
before?"
"Why, yes, didn't Jean tell you? She is the little girl we saw in the
cemetery that Sunday, the one who had only a little candle and such a
measly tiny bunch of flowers."
"And that is why you felt like doing this for her, I see."
"Of course that was it."
"Oh, Jack," exclaimed Jean again rapturously, "it was so lovely. The
Princess Herzlieb was bee-yutiful, and the prince so handsome. It was
like a real fairy-land with roses and things, and the fairy godmother
lived in a cunning house, and had the dearest boy pigeons to carry her
messages. They would flap their wings just like real pigeons, only they
were people dressed up to look like pigeons. Then there was a funny fat
old cook that made everybody laugh; you ought to have seen him, he was
so ridiculous."
"I don't care," said Jack with pretended indifference.
"And the brother of the princess was changed into stone because he was
a very bad boy, and the princess could break the spell only by going
into the king's kitchen and working like a servant for a year, and in
all that time she couldn't speak a word; if she did there would be
no chance of her freeing her brother from the spell. Oh, it was so
exciting I was so afraid she would have to speak."
"I don't care," said Jack, not quite so bravely.
"And," Jean went on still intent upon her tale, "there was a great big
Christmas tree at the last and the king and the king's brother--he was
the prince who loved the princess--and a lot of the court were all
there, then afterward the prince found the princess and she had served
her time as a servant so she could free her brother, so she did, and
oh, it was fine. There were so many lovely things. There was a fairy
who appeared and disappeared like magic, and--oh, yes, I forgot, there
was such a funny dance----"
"I--don't care," said Jack in a broken voice and rushing from the room.
After all, her sacrifice had not seemed to mean much. Every one had
been entertained and had not missed her greatly. Even Jean, her own
twin, had not said she was sorry that her little sister was not there,
but seemed, on the contrary, rather to triumph over her. They had not
said much about Bertha, and--well the tears began to run down her
cheeks as she stood alone in the dark by the window of the room where
she and Jean slept.
Presently the door opened softly and some one came in. "Is that you
here in the dark, Jacksie?" It was Nan who spoke. "I am so sorry you
missed the play. I couldn't half enjoy it for thinking about you. But,
honey, you did the loveliest thing for little Bertha, and you are a
real little Princess Herzlieb yourself, because poor Bertha is shut out
from everything, from all the lovely things and the comforts you have
and you broke the spell by making a sacrifice, just as the Princess
Herzlieb did in the play."
"Oh, Nan, did I?"
"Of course, for you gave her such a wonderful pleasure. I wish you
could have seen her great eyes and her happy little face. She will
remember this afternoon all her life, I am sure. Aunt Helen and I
talked to her as we were coming out, and we are going to find out more
about her. Her mother is dead and she doesn't know where her father is.
She lives with an aunt who has a great many children and I think must
be very poor."
"Maybe she is the switch woman."
"Very likely. At any rate we shall find out soon, and we are going
to see about a jolly good Christmas for them all. Do you remember
last year and little Christine? You did that, too, little Princess
Heartlove. Your old Nan understands, doesn't she? I know you can't help
being half sorry, but when you see how it will all turn out for Bertha,
you will be glad you served without speaking."
"You are so nice, Nan," said Jack, giving her sister a close hug. "You
always do understand, and you never think I am half as bad as other
people think."
"You are anything but bad. Sometimes you do thoughtless things, but you
don't really mean to be naughty."
"I forget."
"I know you do, and after a while you will learn to remember. You don't
do half as many wrong things as you used to. I know something else; I
know if you hadn't spent your money for Jean's doll you would have had
enough to buy a ticket for Bertha and could have kept your own."
"How did you know?" said Jack a little embarrassed.
"Because I know what your allowance is, and I know you had only a tiny
bit left after you bought the doll."
"I had just car fare to take me home."
"Exactly what I thought. Any one of us older ones would have been glad
to help you out, but like the reckless little body that you are, you
rushed off and didn't give us a chance. If you had waited a few minutes
you might have known we'd come out to hunt you up."
"I wanted Bertha to have the ticket and I thought I'd better go, so she
wouldn't try to give it back to me."
"Oh, of course, I know exactly why you did it, but next time give the
rest of us a chance too. We could all have chipped in and have bought
her a ticket, that is supposing there were any to be had. They were
very cheap, anyhow, so you could both have had your fun."
Jack gave a little sigh. She realized that she had rather overstepped
the mark in her effort to be generous, but now she did not regret it,
for Jean had only seen a Princess Herzlieb, and Nan had said she was
one herself; that was much better, and Nan had missed her, whether any
one else did or not. It was worth while to have done something that no
one else had thought of doing, and for which Nan had praised her.
True to their word Miss Helen and Nan did go to hunt up Bertha Metzger,
and found that she really did live with the switch-tender in a little
back street. The place was poor but respectable enough. Frau Pfeffer,
the aunt, worked very hard to support her five small children and
Bertha, too, and it was hard to earn enough for food and clothing for
all. Bertha's father had suddenly disappeared, and had not been heard
of for a long time. He had been nearly crazed by the loss of his wife,
and about the same time had lost his place in a factory. Frau Pfeffer,
herself, had come from the country after the death of her husband and
had tried to find her brother, whom she believed to be in Munich, but
had not been able to learn anything about him. He had gone away to look
for work, his neighbors said, and had promised to return for his little
girl whom he had sent to her aunt.
There was nothing of the whining beggar about Frau Pfeffer. She told
her tale simply as a matter of course, and did not hint at her needs.
She worked hard, but not so hard as many others, for she could sit down
much of the time, and though it was often cold, still that was nothing
when one was used to it, and she considered herself very fortunate
to have the work to do. Bertha could help a great deal. She was to
be relied upon, and did not let the children get into any harm. The
father's name was Hans Metzger, and she was sure if he were alive he
would come back.
The conversation was not carried on without some difficulty, for Frau
Pfeffer's Bavarian dialect was hard to understand, and Miss Helen was
not very proficient in German. Nan had a better command of the language
and was very quick, but even she found herself at a loss for a word
very often, and oftener still, could not distinguish what Frau Pfeffer
was saying.
Miss Helen and Nan walked home together after their visit, coming
through an old part of the city, and happening upon various curious
corners where old painted houses faced them, and where the crooked
streets would have misled them if they had not carried a map. As they
went along they planned what they should do for the Pfeffer family.
Every Christmas for several years the Corners had tried to help some
one who needed assistance, and they had been most fortunate in their
efforts. The sad little picture of a forlorn child offering one meagre
candle and a few broken flowers as a decoration for her mother's grave
on All Saints day had moved them, although it was Jack who had really
done the most to awaken the interest of the others. Jack, whom one
would never suspect of such things, and who had given her family more
anxiety and care than all the rest put together, yet it was she who,
the year before, had given her Christmas stocking to a little lame girl
in New York, for with all her thoughtlessness and her capacity for
getting into scrapes, hers was the warmest heart of all.
That same day Dr. Woods came in, and was told the story which was at
the moment the most interesting theme of conversation. He, too, thought
it a case which should be given attention. "What we want to do," Nan
told him, "is to find the father. Frau Pfeffer is quite sure he will
return, but he may not be alive, though she firmly believes he is."
"Perhaps I can help there," said the doctor. "What is his name?"
"Hans Metzger."
"Where was he last seen?" Dr. Woods took out his note-book.
"He left Munich to find work."
"Do you know where he intended to go?"
"No, but perhaps his neighbors would know."
"I will inquire. Can you tell me what was his last address?"
"I can give you his sister's. No doubt she will know where he lived
last."
"That will do. All right. I will start up a line of investigation at
once. Perhaps among us all, we may get hold of a clue. And how goes the
German, Nan?"
"It is a fearsome language," said Nan solemnly. "I wish you could have
heard me trying to make Frau Pfeffer understand me, though I think I
struggled harder, if anything, to understand her. Such a dialect! I
don't see how they make it out themselves, and I don't see, either,
how they master the German pure and--no, I can't say simple, for it is
exactly the opposite."
"I admit it is pretty hard, and if I hadn't tackled it early, I would
be in a regular fuddle now. But I took my grasp young, and have managed
to hold on, as you will do."
"I don't know. I like French, or any of the Latin languages better."
"Yet there is a sort of rugged dignity about German which is very
attractive. Its literature is very rich."
"I suppose so, and I may find its attractions later, but not when I am
stumbling into pitfalls caused by declensions and constructions."
"If I can help you out at any time, don't fail to press me into
service."
"I may keep you to that offer."
The other girls, including Juliet Hoyt, considered Dr. Paul much too
elderly to be interesting, and at his appearance generally betook
themselves to the Hoyts' rooms, where the more frivolous company of
schoolboys suited their tastes. Nan, therefore, was often left to
do the honors if her mother and aunt were not at hand, and Nan, be
it said, did not consider it a hardship, for she liked Dr. Paul, and
often when Mrs. Corner and Miss Helen returned from an early concert
they would find the two laughing and talking together most happily.
Nan liked the Hoyts and enjoyed the nonsense which went on in their
sitting-room where there were seldom less than two or three boys, but
her love of music was too real for her not wanting to escape from a
series of dances banged out to rag-time measure.
"It is more than I can stand," she told Dr. Paul. "A little rag-time is
jolly enough, and I am not so superior as to despise it altogether, but
a whole evening of it is more than I can stand."
"Yet even that is better than some other kinds," responded Dr. Paul.
"There happens to be a man at our _pension_ who at home has the
reputation of being an accomplished musician because he professes to
play classical music. He comes from some small town, and his companions
are evidently not among the elect. He does play execrably. I wish you
could hear him."
"I don't," interrupted Nan laughing. "I know the kind. I suppose he
will keep right on for the rest of his life as he has begun, varying
his performance sometimes by bringing in a bit of improvisation,
terrible improvisation which has no rhyme, reason, melody or anything
else. I know such a person who blandly told me she sometimes altered
Chopin and Beethoven to suit herself. Fancy! Oh, I know your man will
cheerfully keep on, not knowing the difference between good music and
bad, and because he has always associated with rag-time people who
think any one who plays anything heavier than Hiawatha must have a
standard so high that ordinary mortals cannot venture to criticise the
performance."
"I perceive you are acquainted with the species. Yet, after all, I
sometimes think it is a pity to know too much about music, for one
certainly has a narrower range of enjoyment."
"But think of the quality of it."
"I wonder if it is really more than that of a man I used to know at
college who would say, 'Give me a bag of peanuts and an interesting
book and I'll enjoy myself.' Why, I read half of 'Les Miserables' at
one sitting."
"For peanuts read candy, and you will have about the speech of a
schoolmate of mine."
"Are you going to take up counterpoint and thorough-bass?" asked the
doctor.
"Dear me, no. I don't aspire to composition. If I overcome technique
and get in a little harmony I shall be doing well. I am doing intricate
Bach things now, but I have an inspiring teacher and I don't mind the
hard work. You should hear her play. Talk of temperament! I never saw
anything like her."
"And I fancy Miss Nan Corner is not lacking in that particular."
"I believe Mr. Harmer used to think so, but I feel like a very
automaton compared to Frau Burg-Schmidt."
"I haven't heard you play since you were at home last winter, but----"
"Then you wouldn't let me practice; you told me to frivol, I remember."
"You needed to frivol then. That is where it was a time to quench the
fires of genius."
"I believe I have felt years older since that experience," said Nan
thoughtfully, "and I am sure it is why mother does not want to leave us
alone again. I believe you had something to say to that, too, Dr. Paul."
"You mustn't expect me to give away the secrets of my profession."
"Then it is about the only thing you aren't willing to give away,"
returned Nan laughing.
"Do you like stingy people?"
"Ask a Virginian that? Dear me, what are you thinking of? No, I suppose
I am lacking in a proper admiration for thrift when I say that I would
rather that a person were too extravagant than parsimonious."
"I shall never be a rich man, I am afraid," said the doctor with a half
sigh.
"Comfort yourself with thinking about the deceitfulness of riches, and
keep on being the generous man your father is, and you will be all
right. Listen to my grandmotherly advice and remember that I have three
younger sisters to deal with."
"And I have none."
"Then consider that Nan Corner is ready to be as sisterly as she knows
how, for any better big brother than you are to us all, I do not care
to see. Here come mother and Aunt Helen."
"And you have not played for me."
"You must wait till my joints are so limber that I can make my fingers
form a right angle with the back of my hand; that is what I am aiming
at now."
Then Mrs. Corner and Miss Helen came in and the doctor went forward to
meet them.
[Illustration: CHAPTER XIV
"STILLE NACHT"]