The disillusionment came slowly at the start. Certainly the skysc.r.a.pers were existent in a number and a grandeur which the man had not been able to exaggerate; certainly the railway trains ran up and down on iron stilts as he had said they did; certainly the crowds were mighty and amazing both in their brutality and their good nature, just as he had said they were. Many things there were which, for a time, preserved the innocent flute-player's faith in his informant. But when he came to look for work--ah, then vanished the first bubble.

Seemingly there was no place in all the city for an old performer on the flute save that which Karrosch offered and which Kreutzer would not take.

Even in this new land, far from those he would avoid, the old flute-player was determined not to go to the great orchestras, among whose auditors were likely to be travelers. Thus he barred himself from opera-houses, theatres and most of the hotels, by the towering barrier of his own timidity. Nor did he wish to join a union (this shut him out from many smaller orchestras) or even to enroll himself at the employment agencies. He would not risk unwelcome prominence even to that slight extent. Instead of doing these things, which would at once have won him profitable work, he tramped the streets, looking for various employment, at first with a resilient hope, then with a careful industry, at the end of the first month with dogged determination, finally with a desperation bordering upon despair.

And there were other things to worry him. Early in his search for work he had made a noontime pause, one day, in a quaint lager-beer saloon much frequented by musicians. There, at the table where he sat, he had encountered one who earnestly announced himself as a "wise guy" and told him much about New York, all quite as pessimistic as the London romancer's talk had been enthusiastic. He suffered from misfortune which he blamed, unhesitatingly, to the vileness of the prosperous and ranted endlessly without attracting much attention till he touched upon the subject of the viciousness of the American rich man with women. This roused Kreutzer fully, for one of the tales the babbler told was of a gilded youth who had befriended poverty in order to obtain the confidence of lowly beauty and then, of course, abused the confidence.

Herr Kreutzer's heart beat madly before the man had finished speaking.

Could it be possible that all Americans were of this ilk, as the disgruntled one maintained? If so, then Vanderlyn--ah, it could not be possible! The youth had been too kind to them during the few days of his stay in New York city, before he had departed for the west on a short trip; had promised too much kindness to be offered upon his return! But--Anna!

And so, that very night, he searched until he found another tenement, and, with his own hands, moved their scanty household goods to it, leaving behind him no address. Naturally a sweet and unsuspicious soul, he had never dreamed of treachery upon the part of the ingratiating youth; now suspicion's seeds were sown in his old mind and fertilized by rising tears of disillusionment in most things which he had found in New York, he was ready to be doubtful of the most undoubtable.

The new quarters were much less desirable, in every way, than those they had abandoned, and the rent was higher; but they were quite the best the old man could discover on short notice, and quite the lowest priced. He never dreamed, as he argued with his new landlord over rent that the old rental had been cut almost in half to him because young Vanderlyn had made arrangements surrept.i.tiously. He entered the new tenement with the firm conviction that he had been swindled in the rent which he had paid, "cash in advance," and, that night, was very gloomy.

So, also, were the bewildered Anna and M'riar.

"Hi sye, Miss," said M'riar, when they were alone, while the flute-player went out for the supper, "wot'll that young toff think, comin' back an' findin' yer gone orf from there?"

"Surely there was left behind the address of this place," said Anna, with small confidence of this in her own heart.

"Hi 'eard the lawst word said," said M'riar, with conviction, "an'

hall yer farther told th' geezer was that 'e was goin' to quit."

"But, he would not possibly be so lacking in his courtesy! He--"

Just then the flute-player returned and Anna asked him, boldly, but with a studied air of carelessness, about the matter. It was the first time in her whole life that she had ever tried to hide her real emotions from her father.

"Leave our address for Herr Vanderlyn?" said Kreutzer, who had been waiting for the question and had schooled himself to answer it without revealing the real facts. "Of course. Of course. Why not?" It was the first time he had ever actually lied to Anna. Things, thus, were in a bad way at the start in the new quarters.

M'riar, after the first day there, did the marketing. The streets, transformed into deep, narrow canons by the towering buildings bordering them, swarming with the poor of every nationality on earth, every block made into a most fascinating market by the push-cart vendors with their varied wares, had, from the start, enthralled her.

She was uncannily acute at bargaining. Soon more than one red-headed Jew had learned, in self-defense, to take out the stick which held up one end of his cart, and move along, at sight of her. Too often she had been the symbol of financial loss. Her "Hi sye!" and "My heye!"

became the keen delight of German maidens back of counters over which cheap delicatessen was distributed.

Beyond a doubt M'riar was in her element. She labored day and night.

Few tasks there were about the tiny three-room menage, save the actual cooking, which she did not undertake and undertake with energy which made up, largely, for her lack of skill. Herr Kreutzer, who had been in doubt about the wisdom of engrafting her upon his little family looked at her with amazement, sometimes lowering his flute, on which he might be practicing, in the very middle of a bar, so that he might better stare at her unbounded and unceasing physical activities. She abandoned, as unworthy of her mistress, her old form of address and no longer simply called her "Miss," but "Frow-_line_," after tutelage from the small shop-woman who sold cheese to her in three-cent packages.

But, ere much time had pa.s.sed, the day arrived when Herr Kreutzer feared to have her even buy so much of luxury as cheese in three-cent packages. The little bag of money which had c.h.i.n.ked so bravely on his hip when he had first arrived in New York city scarcely c.h.i.n.ked at all, these days. Everything was so expensive in this new land they had come to! Not only must he pay as much rent for a three-room tenement, with one room almost dark and one quite windowless, as he had had to pay, in London, for the comfortable floor which they had occupied in Soho, but food cost twice as much, he woefully declared--and played the "Miserere" on his flute. He would not go to Karrosch, or any of the large, important orchestras; none of the small ones wished a flutist. He learned to loathe the mere word "phonograph"--in so many places did it form a clock-work subst.i.tute to do the work he longed to do.

It was when want actually stared them in the face that he read an advertis.e.m.e.nt in a German newspaper for a musician--flute or clarinet--in a beer garden. The clock-hands had not yet reached eight when he presented himself at the address, far uptown. He had been unsuccessful, once or twice, in getting hearings because he had arrived too late--these days he rose by four and had a paper fresh and damp from the great presses, and every advertis.e.m.e.nt in it read by five o'clock.

There were many applicants for the position, and by ten o'clock when a youth with a red face and a hoa.r.s.e voice appeared behind the wicket at the side of the main entrance, peered out curiously at the shabby, anxious crowd and winked derisively before he let the door swing inwards, Herr Kreutzer was as weary as he well could be and keep upright upon his feet; but, notwithstanding this, he had not given ground and still held first place in the line. He had arrived at a decision which filled his soul with dread. If he failed to get this place he would apply to one of the great orchestras! This possibility he thought of with a desperate dismay, for, playing thus before the prosperous public, some traveler would be sure to see him, recognize him, send word back to Germany and then--ah, then the deluge! He had been sadly disappointed when he had discovered that New York is not remote from Europe, but as cosmopolitan, almost, as London. Here, as there, asylum only could be found in the remote resorts, unfrequented by those with means, by travelers, by those who know good music. Ah!

he shuddered at the thought of what might happen if, some night, forgetting his surroundings, he should play as he _could_ play in hearing of a connoisseur. Then, certainly, discovery.

So he was very anxious to obtain this small position in the little, far beer-garden. He was sorry for the others, but they could not have necessities the least bit greater than his own. He must not yield to them, so, in the eager crowd, he pushed and scrambled as the others did, and always kept in front.

"What kin yer play?" the fat and blear-eyed manager asked gruffly.

"I play the flute."

"Bring it along?"

"Yah; surely."

"Let 'er go, then. Give us something good and lively."

With nervous hands Herr Kreutzer raised the old flute to his lips, with fingers which put tremolos where none were written in the score; but he made many of the notes dance joyously. Through anxious lips he blew his soul into the instrument--his love of the pre-eminent composer who had sung the song he played, his love of his sweet daughter for whose sake he played--his love of her and fear for her if he should fail to win the favor of his burly listener. The great "Spring Song" of Mendelssohn has never been played on a flute as Kreutzer played it, in the grey light of that morning in the cheerless, bare beer-garden. When he had finished there was silence in the crowd behind him. Not a man among the applicants for the position was a real musician, but all knew, instinctively, that they had been listening to a veritable artist. Then, after an awed moment, there came a little spatter of applause. All these men were seeking for a chance to earn the mere necessities of life; every one of them was more than anxious, was pitifully eager for the small position which was open; but, having heard Herr Kreutzer play, they hoped no longer--and were generous.

The owner of the beer-garden looked on them in surprise.

"Got it all framed up," he said, "that Dutchy is to have the job, have you?" He turned, then, to Kreutzer. "That's all right, too, I guess.

Showed you can play real fast and that is somethin' with a crowd, all right, all right. But don't you know some really _good_ music?"

"Good music!" Kreutzer faltered, at a loss. That which he had played had been among the best the world has ever known.

"Yes; rag-time stuff, an' such. Real pop'lar."

"No," said Kreutzer, sadly, "I fear I do not know good music of the kind you name." He made as if to turn away, but then bethought himself and whirled back hopefully. "But I can learn," he said. "Simple things, without a doubt, I could play on sight."

"Off the notes, you mean?"

"Yah; so."

"Take this, then." The manager held toward him a thick book of rag-time melodies.

Kreutzer, too desperate to be disgusted, ran through half-a-dozen of them rapidly. Now the manager beamed pleasantly.

"Say, you'll do, all right, all right," he told the flute-player.

Then, turning to the rest he motioned them away. "Beat it, you guys,"

he commanded. "Father Rhine here's got the job."

CHAPTER V

Down in the new tenement Anna and her little slave, M'riar, worked hard, that day, at cleaning.

"W'ere Hi wuz born," M'riar gravely commented, "we wuz brought up on dirt an' liked hit, but we never wusn't greedy for hit, like th' way these folks, 'ere, 'as been."

Anna, in the next room, was for the first time in her life working with a scrubbing-brush, and, presently, M'riar heard its swish.

"Hi s'y!" she cried, and dashed into the gloomy cubby-hole. "Wot's this? You scrubbin'? Drop it, now, you 'ear? Hit 'yn't fer me to show no disrespeck, Frow_line_, but--drop it. Hi 'yn't a-goin' to have them pretty 'ands hall spoilt."

"But, M'riarrr, I just _love_ to scrub."

"Don't love hanythink so vulgar," M'riar replied without a moment's hesitation. "Don't _you_ bother lovin' hanythink but just the guvnor, and--and--Mr. Vanderlyn." She looked down at blushing Anna who, upon her knees, was astonished almost into full paralysis. And then she shrilly laughed.

"_Hi_ knows!" said she. "_Hi_ knows."