"With great pleasure, Mrs. Mangenborn," replied Miss Husted, "with very great pleasure! And I may add I was going to ask you for your room this very evening."

Mrs. Mangenborn's only answer was a loud and prolonged laugh, which she kept up all the way to her room and which only ceased when she had shut her door with a loud bang.

"Good riddance!" thought Miss Husted, "a very good riddance!"

Thus the friendship of years was sundered.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Helene prepares her trousseau.]

At this precise moment the innocent object of their strife let himself in at the front door.

"Ah, my dear Professor Von Barwig, I was just thinking of you," said Miss Husted, as she followed him into his rooms. "I've got rid of her at last; Mrs. Mangenborn is going."

Von Barwig smiled. "Is she?" he said simply, "I am glad for your sake.

Now you will be mistress of your own establishment."

"I was always mistress of my own establishment, professor," replied Miss Husted with dignity. "Always."

"Except sometimes when the cards would direct the policy of the house,"

said Von Barwig. "Whenever there is a superst.i.tion, dear lady," he went on, "there is no freedom! We become slaves of our own beliefs."

"Well, I'm glad she's going, anyway," said Miss Husted, not quite comprehending, but not wishing to dispute with Von Barwig. "Why, professor!" and Miss Husted started. She had just noticed that his clothes and books were packed into bundles, as if ready to be carried away. "Professor, professor!" she gasped, "what is the meaning of that?" and she pointed to a big stack of music tied up, "and that, and that, and that," pointing to various articles.

"It means, dear lady, that I'm going to move," said Von Barwig complacently.

"Move!" almost shrieked Miss Husted.

"Yes, as the top floor will not come down to me, I shall move up to the top floor. You see I am nearly all ready. Pinac and Fico will help me; and up I shall go! It is one way of getting up in the world, eh, Miss Husted?" he said with a little laugh, and he looked at her as if he expected her to laugh, too, but she did not join in his merriment.

"There's no room upstairs," she said at last, as if determined he should not go.

"Oh, yes, in the hallway; a nice little room, large enough for my wants."

"But that is a storeroom," cried Miss Husted.

"When I occupy it, it will be a bedroom," laughed Von Barwig, "and just think," he added, "I shall be nearer my friends! They can visit me without running up and down stairs. I shall have additional advantages, at a less rental."

Miss Husted looked at him sorrowfully. She knew it was useless to argue with him, so she gave her consent, but insisted on taking a very small sum for her room. And so Von Barwig moved from the ground floor to the attic. This floor with its huge atelier window on the roof and its stair running down at the back had been used by an artist on account of the splendid light. Although a hallway, it was fitted up as a room. There was a stove, a sink, a large cupboard, and other conveniences for light housekeeping. There were four bedroom doors opening into this hallway, three of which were occupied by Pinac, Fico and Poons, and the fourth Von Barwig took possession of. They all begged him to take their rooms, but he shook his head and smiled and they knew it was useless to ask him, so the skylight musketeers, as they called themselves, had complete possession of the hall, which served them as a common parlour.

It was roomy and airy in the summer, but draughty and cold in the winter; as it was now warm weather, Von Barwig and his friends did not suffer any inconvenience at this time. The men did not see much of each other in these days. Pinac and Fico had secured engagements on an excursion steamboat that plied its way to Coney Island and back. They were away all day, and when they came back late at night Von Barwig was at the Museum. He saw more of Poons than he did of the others, for that young man had no regular engagement, but played now and then as subst.i.tute in one of the downtown theatre orchestras, so he just about managed to eke out an existence on a cash basis, and the three older men were as proud of this fact as if he were their own son. Von Barwig was strangely happy; he took no interest whatever in his physical existence. His immediate surroundings, the people he saw, the food he ate, made no mental impression upon him. Life was a mechanical process, a routine existence to him till midday, when he would, to quote his own words, "begin to live," that is, he would start uptown on his walk to Fifty-seventh Street. Rain or shine he would not ride, for the motion of riding on the b.u.mpy stages interfered with the flow of his thoughts. "Now begins my day," he would say to himself as he started on his journey to his pupil's house, some four or five miles from Miss Husted's establishment. The old man was happy; happy in going, happy when there, happy when thinking that the next day he would see her again. So when, for the third successive time, in as many days, Joles informed him that Miss Stanton was not at home, Von Barwig experienced a feeling of disappointment accompanied by a sense of fear.

"She--Miss Stanton is well?" faltered he to the dignified Mr. Joles, who was regarding him with a haughty expression, not unaccompanied with disdain.

"I beg your pardon!" said Joles in anything but an apologetic manner.

"Miss Stanton is well?" repeated Von Barwig.

"Oh, yes," replied Joles. "Indeed, yes." His answer intended to convey to Von Barwig that such a question was entirely unnecessary, not to say uncalled for.

"It's very strange," Von Barwig mused as he walked home. "She always writes me a little note or leaves a message for me with one of the servants, letting me know when to come for the next lesson."

Then he tried to a.s.sure himself that it was all right, that in the stress of her social obligations she had forgotten.

"It's all right, Barwig, you make yourself miserable for nothing. You expect too much. She is a petted, pampered, feted young lady of fortune, the daughter of a Croesus; do you think she can always think of you? Who are you that she should spare you so much time? You overrate yourself; you--you idiot." People stopped in the streets to look at the old man, who was walking so rapidly and gesticulating so excitedly. When Von Barwig saw that he was observed, he calmed down.

"It's all right," he said. "To-morrow! I shall see her to-morrow!"

That evening at the Museum the night professor was strangely inattentive. So deeply was he engrossed in his own thoughts that he entirely forgot to play when Bosco was announced. He was rewarded by that young lady with a look that was intended to annihilate him on the spot, but the professor did not happen to be looking that way. "She will be there to-morrow, or she will leave a message," he was saying to himself.

"Bites their heads off; bites their heads off! Holy gee! Don't you hear, profess'? It's her cue," came in thundering tones from the throat of Mr. Al Costello. "What the h.e.l.l's the matter, profess'?

Eats 'em alive, eats 'em alive!" he bawled, glaring at Von Barwig, and then the night professor "found himself."

"Oh, my gracious," he thought as he banged on the piano--the chords intended to depict musically the armless wonder's cannibalistic proclivities. Bosco not only bit their heads off, she bit her lips with vexation. It was too late; not a hand applauded when she came on and the fat lady laughed aloud and fanned herself vigorously. She hated Miss Bosco, who, being a headliner, had lorded it over the rest of the unfortunate freaks in a manner deeply resented by them; so the fat lady was glad to see Bosco's act fall down. The skeleton looked wise and tapped his bony forehead with his bony fingers.

"Dippy," he articulated. "All musicians are dippy," he added.

The midgets looked serious, for they loved the professor. Tears started in the little lady's eyes; she expected a storm, for she was terribly afraid of Bosco.

"I do hope that Mr. Costello won't haul him over the coals," said the albino to the tattooed girl. "He's such a nice old guy!"

After the show Mr. Costello listened to Von Barwig's apology in silence, and silence meant a great deal of self-restraint for him.

"It's all right if she don't raise a holler," he said, taking his diamond ring off his necktie and placing it on his finger for the night. "But you must keep awake, see? It looks like blazes to see the profess' asleep! It not only sets the audience a bad example, but it looks as if we was givin' a b.u.m show." Then he added warningly, "We had one profess' last year who went to sleep on us regular, and snored so that we used his noise instead of the snare drums. Well, we left him sound asleep after the show one night and turned the lights off.

When he woke up he thought the wax figures was ghosts, and he threw a fit right on the piano. Holy Mackerel! It took nearly two quarts of whiskey to get him right for the next show; so don't do it again, profess'," he ended solemnly.

Von Barwig promised that he would not--but he made up his mind that just as soon as terms for teaching Mrs. Cruger's nieces were arranged, he would at once give Mr. Costello notice of his determination to resign from the night professorship at the Museum. This thought contributed in no small degree to his peace of mind, for he had begun to loathe the very thought of this place.

When Von Barwig arrived home he found a letter on the hall table. He went up to his little room, lit the candle, sat down on his bed and read the following:

"Mrs. Cruger presents her compliments to Herr Von Barwig, and regrets to inform him that unexpected circ.u.mstances have arisen which will obviate the necessity of his calling upon her in regard to her nieces'

studies."

"Very well," he said to himself, as he folded up the letter. "I shall have more time to think of her," and he went to bed and slept peacefully.

A week elapsed. Each day he had patiently gone uptown to Miss Stanton's house. He had started out full of hope and returned home in despair. On each occasion he had been informed by Mr. Joles that Miss Stanton was out, that she had left no message for him, and that he did not know when she would return. Finally he wrote to her and waited patiently for an answer; but there was no word. The old man's hope of seeing her again gradually grew smaller and smaller until at last the old feeling of dull despair, the old gnawing pain of unsatisfied affection came back to him again. "I am doomed," he thought; "doomed to live my life alone!" He would sit for hours and hours and try to think out why she did not see him, why she did not answer his letter.

Was she away? If so, why did she not let him know? Had she found out that he played in a Bowery museum? Or did she suspect that he knew that she did not need lessons? If so, was that sufficient cause for her neglect? No, he could not reason it out on those lines! Why did Mrs. Cruger send him a note dismissing him after practically promising to engage him as music master to her nieces? Did Mrs. Cruger dismiss him at all, or had circ.u.mstances arisen that obviated the necessity of engaging him? Was it merely a coincidence that she should dismiss him at the same time that Helene avoided seeing him? Were these two conditions in any way connected with each other? Was Helene really trying to avoid him? Had she received his letter? Did she really know? This last question gave him much comfort and he persistently dwelt on that phase of the situation. To believe that she knew; it was inconceivable to him. She would surely have written. "Did I address the letters properly? Did I put stamps on?" he asked himself. "There is a mistake somewhere," he concluded; "a mistake that time will surely adjust."

The next day, after going through the usual performance of asking for Miss Stanton and being informed by Mr. Joles of the young lady's absence, Von Barwig ventured to extend the field of his inquiry.

"Is Mr. Stanton in?" he asked in a low voice, scarcely knowing why he should ask for her father, or what he should say if he was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with him.

"Mr. Stanton!" repeated Mr. Joles, almost horrified at the idea of Von Barwig's asking for his master.

"Mr. Stanton?" he repeated. "Have you an appointment with him?"

Von Barwig admitted that he had not.