"You are too kind," he replied in a low voice.

Miss Stanton was evidently in a very communicative frame of mind, for from that moment she talked rapidly on current musical topics. She knew the latest operas, and loved the spirit of unrest, the unsettled minor chords of the new school of music; preferred the _leit motif_ to the _aria_, music drama to opera, and was altogether exceedingly modern in her tastes. She did not like recitative in music, and preferred Wagner and Tschaikowsky to Bach and Verdi. She loved to be stirred up, she said. She liked Beethoven, yes, but he was too mathematical. As for Handel, he was uninteresting in the extreme; and so she went on and on.

The old man could only gaze at her in silence. There she sat, the living image of his dead wife, talking musical matters in a foreign tongue; an absolute stranger to him, and yet he felt drawn toward her in a strange and unusual way. Who was she? What was she? Had the dead come to life? What had happened? He could only look at her, and feel so very, very happy. What did it all mean?

"How is your father?" he asked when there was a lull in the conversation, brought about by Miss Stanton's pausing to breathe.

Her face fell. "He is in Europe," she said, and did not continue the subject.

Von Barwig noticed that her face saddened when she spoke of her father's absence.

"She must love him very much," he thought, and the thought brought him to his senses.

"Don't be a fool, Barwig," he said to himself. "Her father is a multi-millionaire, one of the great men of the country. Her mother is dead, and you must content yourself with having dreamed that she was yours. You must not look at her, you understand? Don't look at her, or she will suspect what you think and you will be turned away. You have had your dream. Now wake up, wake up!"

It was time for him to awaken, for she was asking him if he thought that musical genius was allied to madness.

"I--I don't know," he replied. "I am not a genius!"

"Will you play for me?" he said, to hide his confusion.

"Not now," she replied. "I have an engagement. Come to-morrow at this hour. I'll leave word this time," she added with a smile. "Mr.

Stanton is so particular about callers that no one can get near me without being personally guaranteed by Joles or Mr. Ditson."

"You haven't seen Mr. Ditson, have you? He is father's secretary. I don't like him, and I'm so sorry. I can't bear not to like any one,"

and she sighed.

Von Barwig was looking at her again; in spite of himself he could not keep his eyes from her.

"Of what were you thinking when you looked at me in that way?" she asked, with a curious smile.

"I--I--don't know," said Von Barwig, rather startled, and this was literally true.

"You're thinking that I am a great rattle-box, aren't you? Now, confess! I am talking a great deal, am I not? But I can't seem to help it! I'm not always like this; indeed I'm not," she said earnestly. "It's a positive luxury to utter the first thought that comes into one's mind--a luxury I seldom get, I can tell you! Somehow or other you drew me out, and I allowed myself to ramble on and on without in the least knowing why. Can you explain it?" she asked laughingly.

He shook his head. "Perhaps you feel that I am interested in you, if you will pardon the liberty I take in saying so."

"Very likely," she said thoughtfully. There was a long pause, for they were so occupied with their own thoughts that neither spoke. The reaction had set in, and she was now strangely quiet; indeed she hardly spoke again that afternoon. After a while Von Barwig rose to take his leave.

"Have I offended her?" he asked himself, as he left the house. "How dare I tell her that I am interested in her! What impertinence, what a liberty! Who am I that I should dare to say such a thing! You old fool!" he now addressed himself directly. "You have happiness well within your grasp, and instead of gently taking it to yourself you grab it with both hands and pluck it up by the roots. You have offended her and she won't see you again. You'll see, you won't be admitted to the house!" The old man almost cried as he thought of his temerity, his folly, his stupidity. He walked faster and faster in his excitement.

"I must curb my unfortunate tongue; I must, I will, if I ever get another chance!" He sighed deeply. "And yet--why should she press my hand and ask me to come to-morrow and be sure not to forget the hour?

She has forgiven me, yes, yes, she likes me; I know she does, but I must be careful!" And so he walked rapidly home to his lodgings, alternately in a heaven of joy or in a h.e.l.l of despair.

Chapter Sixteen

"What a strange old man," mused Helene, as she sat in a box that night at the Academy of Music and listened to an aria from "William Tell."

"Why do I think of him so constantly?"

"My dear Helene, you are not a very attentive hostess," said Charlotte Wendall, a tall brunette. It was after the curtain had fallen on the act, and the box was filled up with visitors. There was always a crowd in the Stanton box on the grand tier when Helene Stanton was present.

"My cousin Beverly has spoken to you twice, and you have not even intimated that you are aware of his presence."

Charlotte Wendall, as a cla.s.smate of Helene's at Va.s.sar, took a school friend's privilege of saying just what she thought. Besides, Helene was fond of her, and permitted her to say what she pleased.

"Won't you speak to me?" pleaded Beverly. "I do so want to be noticed!

I'll be satisfied with a glance in my direction."

Beverly Cruger had recently finished a post-graduate course at Harvard and was just budding into the diplomatic service. He was a fine manly looking chap of twenty-seven, and as he looked down into Helene Stanton's face, his pleading eyes attested to the fact that he was more than merely interested in her.

"I beg your pardon," said Helene, shaking hands with him warmly.

"Helene is very pensive to-night. I can't make her out," interposed Octavie, a pretty little blonde sprite, and a perfect ant.i.thesis to her sister Charlotte. "She is thinking of some one who is not here."

"Quite true," nodded Helene, smiling.

"Happy fellow," murmured Beverly.

"On the contrary," said Helene, who had sharp ears. "The fellow I am thinking about is very unhappy."

"Ah, one of those sad affairs, with languishing eyes, who simpers and sighs!" said Charlotte laughingly, bursting into what she called poetry.

Helene smiled a little. "You'd never guess," she said thoughtfully.

Then, after a pause, "I am thinking of a musician, a music master who lives downtown in one of the little side streets of our crowded city.

He is an artist and a gentleman, who has in all probability devoted the best years of his life to his music; and he has made a failure of it."

"Did he tell you his story?" asked Beverly, slightly interested.

Helene shook her head. "He told me he was a great success, a flourishing artist, a rich man (in her enthusiasm Helene exaggerated slightly), and not three minutes afterward the very piano on which he made his living was taken away from him because he had not sufficient money to pay for its hire. It was the most pitiful thing I ever saw; I simply can't forget it!"

"Poor chap! Can't we do anything for him?" asked Beverly, now thoroughly interested.

"He is very proud. I took one of our mission boys there, a lad who has great talent for music, and this strange individual refused to take any compensation for teaching him. He insisted on taking him for nothing, and said he loved children."

"I should say he was a strange individual," commented Beverly. "He ought to feel highly flattered at the interest you are taking in him."

"You want to look out for these _distingue_ foreigners, Helene! You're an heiress, you know," said Octavie, who was an omnivorous newspaper reader.

"Yes," said Helene, and then she was silent. Beverly Cruger looked at her. Her face, usually happy and smiling, was sad and thoughtful.

"This stranger has made quite an impression on her," he thought. "What is his name?" he asked, a strange sense of annoyance creeping over him in spite of himself.

"Herr Von Barwig," replied Helene.

"Oh, a n.o.bleman," broke in the irrepressible Octavie, who read novels as well as the newspapers; "a German n.o.bleman! It is a romance, isn't it? Is he a count, or a baron; or a--prince, perhaps?"