MOTHERS OF MEN

CHAPTER I

Marie sat staring at the thin, hard-featured man opposite her. His eyes, through the great bone spectacles, were magnified till they looked like some gigantic insect's, and his nervous hands shuffled among the papers on the table before him.

"I'm sorry, Miss Helmar," he said, "very sorry, but that is all there is. Your father was a man who indulged his hobbies, and you must admit that a hobby which carries one into every country on the globe is rather expensive."

Across the girl's mind came the image of her father, whom she had followed weeping to the cemetery only yesterday. His tall, thin figure, with its haggard, pain-racked face, was clearly before her mental vision.

When her mother, who was now only a shadowy remembrance, had faded out of her life, Marie had been taken to the convent and left with the nuns. Her childhood had been passed in even, colorless days, in which the monotony had only been broken when she had been called into the library once a week to hear the letter from her father, who was wandering in far countries, which, for her, meant only the colored maps in her geography books.

It seemed little longer than yesterday, when the Mother Superior had sent for her that last time. She could almost hear the gentle voice now.

"Your father is coming home to Vienna, Marie. He writes he has had his solicitor take a house for him on the Blumen Strasse. You are to leave us, dear child, and make a home for him."

This wonderful father of whom she had been dreaming, was going to take her with him to a home of their own! She had wanted so to belong to some one. The holiday time had always meant heartaches for her. She could remember how wistfully she had stood with her small face pressed against the convent windows, watching her schoolmates as they left to spend those days at home. She remembered how bare and empty the convent had looked after they were gone, and she had been left to wander about alone, till the school days should begin again. The small, hard pillow on her narrow bed, would be soaked with tears as she read and re-read the small packet of letters from her father, that told her so little. These quiet years, while they had succeeded in suppressing her natural affection, had only stored it away as it were, and the girl was pathetically eager to pour it out to the father whom she scarcely knew.

The wonder and interest of those first few months, woke in her mind ideals and dreams she had never had in the seclusion of the convent, where her day had been bounded by prayers in the morning and the vesper bell at night.

Professor Helmar's life had been wrapped up in his pretty wife. She had been much younger than the reticent, rather shy man, whose interests were all centered in the dry dust of forgotten ages, until the living sunshine of her own hair had flashed across his gray vista. There had been six joyous, wonderful years, and then suddenly she had gone, leaving the place she had filled, empty indeed. Her short illness and death had been a blow so severe to him, that he hesitated only long enough to put their little daughter, whose golden hair reminded him too forcibly of his loss, in the care of the nuns, then threw himself once more into his researches among the ruins of antiquity.

That was twelve years ago, and weary at last, longing for the companionship of the daughter who was the symbol of the love that had meant so much to him, he had come back. And in this short year, Marie, wide-eyed and passionately eager to be all that this wonderful father wanted her to be, had blossomed from the shy convent child into the promise of charming young womanhood.

The little house in the Blumen Strasse was filled with his books, and the pictures her mother had loved. The girl, inspired by her father, came to know and understand art, for Professor Helmar's quest after the evolution of beauty, had carried him through the ages, from its shadowy beginning among the great temples of Egypt, to its culmination in the Greece of Pericles. Then, like a bolt out of the blue, had come his last illness and death, and now she was alone.

Something of all this flashed across her mind in the few seconds the solicitor waited for his answer, much as a man's life passes before him when he is drowning. She looked about her helplessly.

"But," she scarcely recognized her own voice, "what am I to do?"

"That, my dear young lady," this time the solicitor looked over the great spectacles, "is something you will have to decide for yourself. Your father gave you a very good education, I believe."

"I was at the Sacred Heart Convent from the time I was six until just about a year ago. They taught me French and music, and a little drawing. I never thought I should have to use them." Indeed, the idea that the necessities of life were not one's by right, had never entered her mind.

The solicitor was beginning to gather up the papers.

"We never know, my dear young lady, when we will be overtaken by adversity. It is always well to have something to fall back upon. Couldn't you teach—er—say French? Music?"

Marie's tear-filled eyes wandered about the tasteful room. With what happiness she had come here, and after so brief a space of time, this overwhelmingly crushing blow. All her brief life, sheltered as it had been in the convent, her mind had never dwelt upon the nature of material things. There had always been new, clean frocks for her. There had always been sufficient food to eat without the thought of how it had been provided, always the haven of her scrupulously clean, little white room. These things all were, there was no thought in her mind of how they came to be, nor the possibility that they would ever cease to exist.

But now, the meaning of the shriveled old solicitor's words were making themselves plain to her. The means of a livelihood had been taken away. She must, in order to live, provide for herself, either through some physical exertion, or some mental effort. What was she to do?

She had never learned to walk alone. The quiet cloisters, the sweet-faced nuns, had been a prop on which she had leaned. When her father had returned from those journeys into foreign lands, where his discoveries and scientific studies had furnished dreams for her lonely childhood, she had leaned as heavily on him, and now that this support had been taken away, she stood like one swaying dizzily on the edge of a precipice.

It was so short a time ago, only a year, that he had returned, but how different from the strong, stalwart, handsome man she had been expecting.

Again his face seemed to float before her, pale, thin, drawn with suffering, with its sad eyes always seeming to ask for something. Her poor father! The love and companionship she had dreamed of had been too long deferred, and he had gone away on that last great journey, only to leave her worse than alone in the end.

"I suppose you will not want to keep up this place," the solicitor's voice broke in on her thoughts, "it will be quite beyond your affording."

She looked about her at the things she had learned to love. After the bare convent walls, the simple beauty of this little home, had seemed luxury itself. The really fine etchings which had been her mother's, the delicate little Tanagra figurines her father had brought her, the bits of Pompeiian glass flashing back the prismatic colors of the tears that must once have filled them, the little bronze Narcissus, which she had loved above everything, must she give them all up?

Through the long windows she caught a glimpse of the tiny garden where her father and she had always had their coffee. The old locust tree was even now dropping its fragrant white petals on the flagging. He had loved the scent of these white blossoms! How could she leave it all?

"Where shall I go? Where can I go?" She was frightened; the world seemed such a vast, unexplored place to her who had known only the convent and these sheltered walls.

The papers were all gathered together now, and the hands of the solicitor were busy putting them carefully into his black leather portfolio.

"You have about two thousand crowns, Miss Helmar," he told her, "to be exact, I should say, that after all expenses are paid, there will be about one hundred crowns a month for you, for a year. That is not a munificent sum, but it will maintain you until you begin to earn your living."

Marie looked helplessly about her. Her knowledge of money was not very extensive, but she knew that one hundred crowns a month would not even begin to pay the rent of this little nest her father had brought her to. And there was the housekeeper to be paid, food to be bought, clothes. She sighed.

"Where shall I go to live?" she faltered.

"You will find many places, many places," reassured the solicitor, "I dare say I may be able to find you—er—one or two pupils—er—if you are not exorbitant in your prices."

"Oh, no, I'll not be," she answered him eagerly. "I'll ask the least possible, Herr Gutman. I—I suppose I had better seek a room for myself this—this afternoon?"

"The sooner, the better," the tone was unsympathetic, there were too many cases such as this, stored away among his files. "The less time you stay here, the more kronen you will have for the year." He picked up his shining black hat, "I must bid you good morning, Miss Helmar. If there is anything I can do, let me know. Of course, I shall want to know your new address," and with a slight bow he left her.

Unpleasant as his crabbed features were, they were better than no one, and after the door had closed on his thin figure, she felt terrifyingly alone.

All her life she had been led to believe that Hunger and Want, those two cruel sisters, would never knock at her door, but here they were, actually grinning at her elbow. When this small sum that stood between her and starvation was gone, what was she to do? Suppose she couldn't get any pupils? Suppose she could find no way of earning her living. The thought sent her blond head down on her arms, and shook her slender, black-clad figure with sobs.

"Ach, Fräulein!" it was old Minna, the housekeeper, who found her, and whose broad hand tried to pat some comfort into the shaking shoulders. "Ach, Fräulein, you must not cry so, it is much better for the good Herr to be at rest. He was in pain so long, it is much better so."

"I am alone, Minna, I am alone," sobbed the girl, "nobody wants me, nobody needs me, I'm alone."

Minna dabbed her eye with the corner of her stiff white apron.

"You must not cry, Fräulein," she begged, "you must not cry! Come, lie down awhile, and when you are rested, you will feel better!"

"I must leave here, Minna," sobbed the girl, "I have no money now—I'm—I'm poor—I must go away—to-day. I don't know where! I don't know where!"

Minna's broad bosom heaved sympathetically.

"Why not go back to the good sisters at the Sacred Heart?" she suggested.

"That was my thought," replied Marie between her sobs, and indeed, all that first bitter night after her father's death, she had longed for the comforting arms of the Mother Superior, and the little French sister who had been her dearest friend.

"Why not go there, then?" The problem seemed so simple to the good German woman.

"I promised father," explained Marie, "that I wouldn't. You see, he was always afraid I would become a nun. He said I was never meant to be shut away from the world; but, oh, Minna, I'm so afraid."

"Tut-tut, Fräulein, what need you fear?" For Minna there was no danger that she could not meet with the aid of her ready tongue and able arms. "Can't you keep this pretty house?"

"I am poor now, Minna," Marie told her sadly. "I must find a place not so expensive, I must find pupils," and at the thought the golden head went down again on her folded arms.

The old woman stared at her.

"What about me?" she asked.

Marie lifted her head, startled.

"I don't know," she said, "I hadn't thought!"

Minna pursed her lips, her brow wrinkling into a heavy frown for a moment, then suddenly, her face cleared.

"Don't mind about me, Fräulein," she said. "I have been wanting a rest. I shall take it for a week. After that there are plenty of places for good housekeepers."

"But where can I go?" The blue eyes were very wistful, the world seemed so terrifyingly large and strange.

Minna thought a moment.

"If the Fräulein would not find it too plain," she ventured, "I can take her to a nice place."

"Nothing is too plain, Minna; don't you understand that I am poor? Will you take me there, now?"

"Of course, I will." Minna was all eagerness. "It is quite on the other side of the city, Fräulein, but it is clean, and I think we can get it cheap. My friend is a musician," this with some pride, "he and his wife live there. I'll get my bonnet. We'll go right away!" and she bustled out to prepare for the journey.

Marie sat a moment looking about her. The things she loved and which her father had taught her to understand, everything that had grown dear to her, she must leave them all, for the grim-faced Herr Gutman had made it very plain to her that it was only by selling all these that she was to have the means to live at all.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, and went into her little room with its pretty pink and white hangings, its dainty bed. For a long time she stood and stared at herself in the mirror. The sad face stared back at her, made whiter by the black of her mourning frock. There were deep shadows under her blue eyes, one or two strands of fair hair had escaped from their fastenings. Wearily she brushed them back and dried her tears. She pulled a small black leather trunk out of the cupboard and began packing it. The tears started afresh as she laid her belongings neatly in the trays and put in the dainty piles of lingerie. Marie loved beautiful things; she loved to feel the touch of fine linen next to her white skin. She loved the dainty ribbons, tied across her young breast. But ribbons, bows and silk stockings would be impossible in the future.

The last frock packed, the last pair of shoes put in, she closed and locked the little trunk, then, with trembling lips, she pinned on her black hat and slipped into her coat.

"I'm ready, Minna," she called, as she came back into the living-room, "we must waste no time."

The good woman bustled in, resplendent in her Sunday bonnet.

"I'm ready too, Fräulein," she said as she buttoned across her ample bosom the jacket that had evidently been made for her in less buxom days. "I'm ready too, shall we start?"

With a last look back, Marie went down the stairs and out into that world of which she knew so little.

CHAPTER II

During the long ride across the city, old Minna kept up a steady chatter. Her one idea was to comfort the girl. There was no thought of her own necessity for seeking a new position. There were plenty of places for cooks and housekeepers, but this frail little creature, who sat beside her with the black veil drawn down over her face to hide the tears, what could she do?

Presently they got off the tram, and Minna leading the way, hurried up a narrow street, filled with children and gossiping women. They turned in at a doorway next to a delicatessen shop. On the steps, a little girl of about eight, with very tightly braided hair, was hushing a fat baby to sleep. The child moved aside for them to pass, and they made their way up the long, dark stair. The air was heavy with the smell of cooking, mixed with that of hot soapsuds.

Two flights up, Minna knocked loudly at a door, in front of which a tiny point of gas was sputtering in a crooked jet.

The door was opened by a thin, little woman, in a clean calico dress, with a small black apron tied over it. She wore great round spectacles, through which her sharp black eyes twinkled. She tipped her chin in a curious way, as she looked at them.

"Ach, Minna," she cried, cordially, "come in, come in. It is so long since Shatzi and I have seen you."

She held the door wide, and Minna stood aside for Marie to enter.

"I have brought a young lady," she said, "who wants a room to live in. I told her I thought you might have a place for her."

Their hostess pushed forward a chair for Marie and motioned Minna to a seat on the sofa.

"Sit down, sit down," she said hospitably, "I'll get a cup of coffee and some kuchen, and then we can talk," and she bustled out to prepare refreshments for her guests.

Marie glanced about the neat little room. Against the walls were arranged stiffly, old-fashioned black horsehair chairs, each with a white knitted antimacassar pinned neatly on the back. In the window a canary fluted, his tiny throat swelling with ecstatic trills as he swung in his cage over the shining leaves of a little rubber tree. Primly in its corner stood the sofa, place of honor, where Minna now sat, her holiday finery spread out about her.

On the tiny mantel stood a crowd of china ornaments, jolly looking little dogs with huge bows about their necks, gilt and blue shepherdesses, very small vases, decorated with very large roses. In the center, a faded photograph of an empty-faced little girl with two blond braids over her shoulders, stared stiffly out of a frame made of sea shells and dried flowers twined about the ornately lettered phrase, "In liebender Erinnerung." Marie, reading the tender phrase, smiled wistfully. No one was so plain or so unimportant but that in some heart they were enshrined "in loving memory."

She was impressed by the spotlessness of everything. She found herself wondering, if each little object had its place marked on the shelf so that it could be put back when it had been dusted.

Over the mantel hung a brilliantly colored chromo of a sad-eyed Christ, His blue robe opened at the breast, showing a gilt and bleeding heart. There were two or three other religious pictures, but every other available space on the dingy little walls was hung with photographs of the same empty-faced little girl, in various stages of growth.

Old Minna, her hands, in their brown thread mittens, folded in her lap, sat blinking her lashless eyelids. There was always a certain dignified manner which accompanied the wearing of her best clothes, and she was wrapped in it to-day, so that Marie scarcely knew her for the same, plain-spoken, good humored old woman who had taken care of the little house in the Blumen Strasse.

Once or twice the girl opened her lips by way of starting a conversation, but closed them again and relapsed into an uneasy silence, suppressed by the majestic dignity of the old housekeeper.

Presently, the hostess returned with a tray, which she set on the center table, first having carefully removed the lamp and a large embossed album, and folded up into a neat square the red-fringed cloth. There was coffee in a highly decorated pot, cups equally ornate, one with a gilt initial on its side, a plate of plain cake, with a richly sugared top, and a small pitcher of milk.

"Now," she said, "while we have our coffee, we can talk. Is it a room to live in, you want?"

Marie opened her lips to answer, but Minna broke in.

"The Fräulein is the daughter of my poor master, who has just died," she said. The little old woman shook her head in pity, glancing at Marie over the edge of her spectacles like a bright-eyed bird. "She is quite poor now," continued the housekeeper, "ach, yes, even rich folks can spend all their money, and now she's all alone. I think it would be nice for you to have her here."

Their hostess tilted her chin grotesquely as she eyed the girl through her thick glasses.

"We have an extra room, yes, it would be company for me while Shatzi is away," and then quite suddenly she turned to Minna. "She looks like Frieda," she said softly, her eyes straying mistily to the many pictures of the empty-faced little girl, "she can stay with us."

Marie smiled at her gratefully, glancing somewhat dubiously at Frieda's photograph. This would be much better than going out among people of whom she knew nothing. Herr Gutman was to attend to the selling of her few belongings. Minna could close the house and send her trunk. She would go now to the solicitor's office and make arrangements.

Frau Schultz showed them the little room she was to occupy. There was a narrow yellowish wooden bed in it, with a starched counterpane and a stiffly frilled pillow sham across which was embroidered in red, "Guten Morgen." Over the yellow wooden dresser hung a cheap mirror. The glass was wavy and blotched in places where the mercury had worn away. Marie wondered, as she saw the distorted reflection of herself, if the compliment Frau Schultz had paid her had been deserved. A small chair completed the furnishings, excepting a small plaster figure of the Virgin against the wall, with a holy water stoup under it. It was a tiny cupboard of a place, but neat and spotless. Marie stood and looked down from the small window into the courtyard onto which it gave. Between the houses hung rows of freshly washed linen, all manner of garments swinging in shameless abandon, but the courtyard, though barren and unattractive, was scrupulously clean. She thought of the cool sweetness of the garden she was leaving, of the old locust tree and its falling blossoms, the comfortable wicker chair in which her father used to sit through the sunny mornings. She turned away with a sigh, her heart heavy, a lump rising in her throat. Frau Schultz, standing at her elbow, peered at her with her bird-like eyes, and the girl felt instinctively that she had found some one who would be kind.

She broached the price shyly, timidly it was acquiesced in by Frau Schultz, and decisively settled by the capable Minna.

Then they went back into the little parlor again, and to the accompaniment of Hanzi, the canary's, operatic warblings, Minna had two more cups of coffee and another piece of kuchen. Then, brushing the crumbs from her ample lap, she rose to go.

"I'll send your trunk right away, Fräulein," she said.

"When can I come to stay?" Marie asked timidly.

"As soon as you wish, Fräulein," said Frau Schultz hospitably. "You can stay now if you want to. We are very simple people. You are like our Frieda. We'll watch over you."

Marie explained that she must go to the solicitor's office and arrange her affairs, and that she would be back as soon as she could, to stay, so with many exchanges of hearty good will between Minna and Frau Schultz, and the promise of care for Marie, they started down the dark stair again, Minna to go back to the house to close it, Marie to arrange about the source of her hundred kronen.

CHAPTER III

The first few weeks in her new home were not so unpleasant as Marie had anticipated. Frau Schultz and her good husband took the girl under their wing, and in their simple kindly way, tried to help her fit herself to her new environment.

After all, it is only the transition period that is difficult for any of us to live through. We adjust ourselves rapidly to the life that lies on either side of it, but in that short span between what was and what is to be, lies our keenest sorrow and suffering.

After the first hard wrench that carried her out of the little house in the Blumen Strasse into these very different surroundings, Marie began to enjoy the companionship of the old couple.

Herr Schultz, Shatzi, as his wife called him, played the piano in a café in an out-of-the-way corner of the city. He was a heavy, rather stupid old man, who had lived his life pounding out indifferent music on café pianos. His round, prominent eyes looked out into the world with a mild wonder. His thick gray hair was rough and unkempt, and his shabby clothes kept his neat wife busy brushing away the spots which, in spite of her vigilance, would persist in garnishing them. His heavy mouth always wore a half-childish smile, and his manner was one of apology for his very existence, but his little wife, with her wrinkled face, her sharp old eyes, lived only for him. At first Marie wondered, but she came to understand that no man can be so utterly devoid of attraction, but that some woman will love him.

These simple people took the girl to their hearts. They were staunch socialists who believed firmly in the tenets of their order, still they realized that the accident of birth which had placed them in the social status in which they lived, made them not inferior, but different from those who occupied a higher stratum of society. They had not failed to observe the difference between Marie and themselves, yet it was not in the least an obstacle to the mutual respect and love which increased as the days passed.

Their own daughter, whose photograph was omni-present, they had lost years before. Frau Schultz, whose fond, though mistaken imagination had seen a resemblance in Marie's blond prettiness to the plain Frieda, pointed it out to her husband, who, always ready to acquiesce with her opinions, eagerly agreed.

The tiny flat, with its old-fashioned furniture, with Hanzi, the canary, singing in his cage, and the shining leaves of the little rubber tree in the corner, came to mean home to Marie.

The furnishings of her father's house realized less than Herr Gutmann had anticipated. While the money lasted, Marie busied herself helping Frau Schultz about her duties and sewing buttons on the shirts which the thrifty little woman made to eke out the scanty exchequer.

In her inexperience, she had believed that the world was made up of people like her father and the nuns at the convent. People who were kind and thoughtful, considerate of the feelings of others, each man ready and willing to help his weaker brother. The splendor and riches that sparkled along the boulevards, the fertile fields, with their bounteous harvests that spread about the convent, this was the world to her. She had no realization that there might be people who could have no share in all this. She had supposed that she would always be surrounded by the comforts of a home such as the little house in the Blumen Strasse. The sudden awakening out of this pleasing supposition, had left her dazed, breathless, as one would feel when a supposedly secure shelter had been suddenly shattered by wanton hands.

Although Marie's education at the convent had given her no definite training for earning her living, still she was not without an inherent quality of courage, that dogged something that had made her father go on with his life when his heart was in the grave. With her natural timidity, she shrank from contact with the world of which she knew so little, but the realization that her money was fast dwindling away, warned her that a means of augmenting her slender resources, must be found. Mentally shutting her eyes, and gulping as a child does before taking a dose of bitter medicine, she faced the situation.

Herr Gutmann managed to get two pupils for her. Twice a week, Marie went to teach them the scales.

One was the small daughter of a rich brewer. She was a delicate, weak-eyed child, without any initiative or interest in anything. She always seemed to Marie like a pale spot in the gloom of the huge drawing-room. Her thin legs, dangling down from the music bench seemed ever to be seeking a resting-place, and her transparent fingers played the scales in a tinkling, apologetic way, making the same mistakes in the same places, lesson after lesson. When Marie's patience gave out, which was seldom, for she loved children and even had a spark of affection for this unresponsive little creature, the pale eyes would blink at her uncomprehendingly, and the thin fingers would tinkle out the same mistakes in the same way.

Her other pupil was a boy of eleven, a square, flat-faced youngster who hated the lessons and spent his time between them in devising methods of annoyance for his patient teacher. He was never happier than when, with both feet on the pedals he would come crashing down on the keys, till poor Marie held her ears in terror, for the boy's mother was nervous and abhorred noise of any kind, and each lesson ended in the servant bringing word that the Gnädige Frau could not be disturbed any longer.

But even for these two pupils, Marie was grateful. The money she earned, she put away to be used when her own supply should have vanished.

The sum in the savings-box was still pitifully small, when one day the servant, coming in with the usual message about the Gnädige Frau's nervousness, added that the noise disturbed her, so that in the future, she would be obliged to have the lessons discontinued. With an extra crash on the long-suffering piano keys, the square-faced youngster announced that he was glad, that he hated music, he hated teachers, hated everything in general and Marie in particular, and bounced out of the room.

The girl stood for a moment staring blankly at the servant who grinned as she held the door open for her. She could hear the thumping footsteps of her pupil as he bounded up the stair, and his voice came down to her shouting his joy at the dismissal of the hated teacher.

Her heart sank as she went down the steps into the street. There was still the pale-eyed child, however, and the money left by her father was not yet quite exhausted, why let this curt dismissal prey on her so? She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Things hadn't reached their worst yet.

It was raining a sad sort of drizzle that made it difficult to be cheerful, and it was with a vague foreboding that she turned into the street where the other pupil lived, and rang the bell of the big house.

The man servant who let her in, took her umbrella and threw open the door of the gloomy room. She missed the apologetic tinkle of the scales which usually came from somewhere out of the distance. Her eyes growing accustomed to the semi-darkness, she saw the pale-eyed child sitting at the piano, her dangling feet groping for a resting-place, her thin hands idle on the keys. When the man had closed the door, the child slid from the piano bench.

"Fräulein," she said, "I don't have to take any lesson to-day, the doctor says it is bad for my eyes."

Marie paused in her task of unrolling her music.

"When shall I come then?" she asked.

"Oh," and there was a quick note of pleasure in the colorless little voice which hurt the girl to hear, "I don't have to take any more lessons at all. Here's a note from mamma," and she handed her a small white envelope.

Marie took it with trembling fingers. She opened the note and found it to be a formal one of dismissal on account of the child's health. It enclosed a small sum still due.

Marie walked home through the rain. Surely this great world that she had seen stretch away in such fertile fields from the convent windows, had enough to spare for one girl who wanted so little. The uneven distribution of material things had never touched her before. Now she was beginning to realize that there were those who had more than they could use, and yet held tightly to it all. How few there were like the father whom she had lost, whose religion it had been to share with his fellow men.

She climbed the long flights to the little Schultz flat, disheartened. Her landlady's sharp eyes took in the situation at a glance.

"Both of them stopping, Fräulein?" she asked, "never mind, drink your coffee and to-morrow you can find others." Her optimism stilled Marie's fears and as she sipped the steaming beverage and munched the cake Frau Schultz was noted for, she planned how she would find other pupils.

And now began long days of seeking for something into which her poor little convent-learned accomplishments would fit.

But nobody seemed to want to study music. Her French was nearly perfect, the good nuns at the Sacred Heart had seen to that. She tried to find some one who wished to learn, but though it happened that just then the study of the French language was very popular in Vienna, everyone wanted a Mademoiselle from Paris.

She knew a little singing, a little drawing; a little, but not enough of anything. Her drawing, she tried to utilize, but no one wanted to learn the gentle art of sketching in water colors or making dainty pen drawings. The time had gone by for that, there were too many art schools where one could learn to paint boldly from the nude, in garish colors, futurist canvasses.

How many others were trying as she was trying. How much more competition than things for which to compete. This world, that seen from the convent windows, had seemed all peaceful fields, green and tranquil, that had given her kindness and comfort in her father's house, what a different aspect it wore, now that she had stepped down from her sheltered nook.

To Marie, facing it like a timid hare brought to bay, it seemed like a pack of snarling hounds, quarreling over bones thrown from some more fortunate table, wrangling and fighting, climbing on the shoulders of each other, ruthlessly trampling down the weaker. She was frightened, yet filled with a bitter wonder that here, suffering was not only a possibility, but a certainty.

The pillow on her little yellow bed was soaked with many tears, frightened, disappointed tears, and still, through it all the thoughtfulness and generosity of these two old people with whom she made her home, kept alive in her heart faith in human nature. They had so little and yet that little was divided gladly with one less fortunate than they.

The year was nearly gone now and so was the money. Soon she would have to supply herself from the small box of savings, and after that, she dared not think. She could not be a burden to these kindly people, knowing, as she did, that there was scarcely enough for themselves, and that, only, with the help of what she was paying for her tiny room.

One evening, Herr Schultz came home with the announcement that there was a chance for her if she cared to take it, singing in the little café where he played.

"The salary is very small, Fräulein," he said, "but I shall be there to bring you home each night, and your voice is not a bad one."

Marie loathed the very thought of doing such a thing, but she dared not refuse with a knowledge of her ever-dwindling funds, and the danger of at last living on the Schultz's bounty, so it was decided that she was to go with the old man the next day and apply for the position.

"Have you a pretty dress, Marie?" asked Herr Schultz. "You will have to wear something with no neck or sleeves."

Marie made a mental inventory of her wardrobe. There was a simple frock that could be arranged, so she nodded. The old man rubbed his hands.

"Now," he said, "come and sing some of the Schubert Lieder, or perhaps a little Grieg."

Her voice was a small high soprano, with a very sweet note in it, and her natural appreciation for all that was beautiful and tender, gave her singing an appealing quality that more than compensated for its lack of volume.

The old man was delighted.

"Good!" he said. "We go to-morrow," and Frau Schultz nodded approval, as she threaded a needle, her small head on one side, the bird-like eyes squinting at her work.

The café or tingle-tangle where old Schultz played, was one of the sort the outside world referred to as Bohemian, tucked away in an obscure corner of the city. The proprietor was an oily-faced man whose good humor depended entirely upon the amount of patronage his house received.

He nodded to old Schultz and looked Marie over appraisingly. He noted with approval her blue eyes and delicate features. The mourning frock, for she still wore black, set off the gold of her hair.

"Sing for me," he said, and to Schultz's accompaniment and with her heart pounding, Marie sang.

"H'm," grunted the proprietor, "the voice will do, but Gott, those songs, do you think this is a church? Find something lively, something gay, a bit—you know," and the girl felt her face flush at his tone.

She was about to say she couldn't, but she thought of the little that stood between her and starvation, and that not only she, but the good people with whom she lived, needed this position, so swallowing hard, she said she would try.

"And your dress," the proprietor called after them as she and the old man were leaving, "mind you put some dash in it!"

"It will be all right," soothed Schultz, when they were walking down the street together, "don't mind, kleinchen, I'll be there to take care of you. We'll go now and pick out some songs, and to-night the good Frau will help you fix up the dress."

They went into a music shop, in the window of which hung a gaudy display of popular music. With the help of an anæmic youth who stood behind the counter and ogled Marie, they selected four or five, and having paid for them out of her slender purse, they started home. All that afternoon they went over the songs, the old man explaining to her how she must sing them, with more dash, more life, and the girl going over them patiently.

"Can't I put in one of the Schubert songs?" she begged. "Just so I won't feel so terribly away from myself?" and after a good deal of debate, they settled on "Impatience," trusting that its swift-rung cadence might make up for its very evident incongruity to the surroundings.

All evening, Frau Schultz and Marie pulled and snipped and sewed at the simple frock, trying to arrange it so as to please her new employer, and when at last the girl stood before the little mirror and looked at her reflection, she was startled at the change she saw. Her slender arms were white, even against the white of the gown, and her almost childish throat and young bosom with its delicate curves looked very lovely where the lace fell away. She had piled her hair high on her head, and the good Frau, after searching among her belongings, had unearthed an old-fashioned high comb which she had insisted upon her wearing.

"You look very sweet," she said, "to-morrow you'll win every one's heart."

"I don't want to do that," sighed Marie. "It's a horrid place, really Frau Schultz, but I must do my best. That means a lot to all of us, doesn't it?"

The good little woman kissed her.

"There, there," she said, "if things don't go right, you must not worry. Shatzi and I are always here. Now go to bed," and with a kind little pat, she took the lamp and left her, closing the door after her.

For a long time Marie sat and looked at the girl in the mirror. What would be the outcome of this venture, she wondered. What would her father have said, if he could have known. If she could have looked ahead, how she would have hated the little white dress that she laid aside so carefully, how she would have hated the old-fashioned comb, which she drew out to permit her wonderful hair to come tumbling about her shoulders.

What an all wise Providence it is that has made us blind to what lies before us! How few would have the courage to go on if they could look even one day ahead!

As she turned down her lamp and slipped into bed, her only thought was, could she manage to keep this place that had come to her when she so much needed it.

CHAPTER IV

The "Two Eagles" was one of those little cafés which abound in Vienna; good beer, music, and freedom; the rendezvous of students, with a fair sprinkling of the military.

To Marie, peeping out from the tiny, none-too-clean room, they had given her to dress in, it seemed far worse than it really was, for the girl's eyes had only looked on life at the convent, and from the windows of her father's house. The clicking of the steins on the bare tables, the rough voices of the waiters as they hurried back and forth, the scraping of chairs on the sanded floor, the floating layers of blue smoke through which the lights blurred, the students with their wide black ties and unkempt hair, with here and there a splash of color where some officers sat sprawled about a table. This was a world of which she had never dreamed, and she shrank instinctively from its cheap tawdriness. Through it all, breaking out in shrill peals, or suppressed giggles, came the laughter of women. Laughter more than anything is indicative of caste, and this coarse mirth was strange to Marie's ears.

Away at the far end, was the platform on which Herr Schultz was playing the piano, with a white-faced, wizened young man beside him, scraping on a violin.

How was she to get there? The time had come. One of the greasy waiters had just knocked at her door and told her they were ready, but the route lay in and out among those many tables, those staring faces. She never knew how she reached the platform. She was keenly conscious of the scraping of her shoes on the sanded floor, and of the voices about her.

One woman laughed in a sneering way as she passed her table, and her companion reached out and tried to grab Marie's hand. In pulling away, she almost fell over the shining boot of a young, round-faced officer, a boot which had been thrust in her way purposely, and whose owner roared with mirth at her terrible confusion. She was vaguely conscious of an older man at his side, at whose sharp word the offending boot was withdrawn. As she passed, here and there rough voices flung appraising phrases at her, that sent the blood flaming into her cheeks.

But after what seemed an interminable journey, she at last reached the little platform and the shelter of Herr Schultz's side.

"Never mind, child," whispered the kindly old man, "you'll grow used to it all. What shall we sing first?"

Marie's heart was in her throat. She felt as though she never should be able to even speak, to sing was an impossibility. The white-faced violinist murmured an encouraging word. Herr Schultz patted her arm, his weak mouth tremulous with reassuring smiles.

She told herself that she was in no way a part of this cheap, vulgar place. It need not touch her. She was there to sing, to earn her living. Her cheeks burned, but she swallowed bravely, and as Herr Schultz struck the opening chords, she turned and faced the room, which seemed to swim in the blue haze of the tobacco smoke. Before her eyes was a blur of black and white, with here and there a spot of color made by some soldier's uniform. Her small, sweet voice trembled, and she sang the rollicking music-hall ditty, as though it were a sentimental ballad, but she seemed to have struck the vacuous fancy of the young officer, over whose foot she had tripped, and while her voice still clung to the last note, he acclaimed his approval.

Indeed she seemed to have pleased the majority of her audience, who, with their characteristic love of music, applauded vociferously, pounding on the tables with their beer mugs and shouting noisily.

She resumed her seat with the pleasure that appreciation, from no matter how mean a source, always brings.

As she waited while the old man turned over the music before beginning another song, her eyes were caught and held by the pale blue ones of the young officer who had started the applause. She felt her face grow scarlet under his gaze. Some intangible instinct warned her of danger, but she was grateful to him for his demonstration of approval, so she tried to force her trembling lips to smile her thanks. He was quite young, his pale blond hair worn stiff in the familiar paint-brush style, was almost white against his flushed forehead, and his full lips were very red. He was sprawled in his chair with his thick legs in their tight blue trousers, straight out before him, his head sunk between his shoulders. The man at his side touched him quietly on the arm and said a few words which Marie could not catch. The youth pulled himself together and turned once more to the table and through all of her next song, which was the Schubert one, he paid no more heed to her. Even at its conclusion, he did not vouchsafe the approbation he had given her at first. But the rest of the room was unanimous in their praise.

She was trembling. She had pleased them, and she was so anxious to please. Herr Schultz looked at her proudly over his shoulder, as he struck the opening chords for the white-faced violinist, who smirked at her.

After a brief rest, she rose at the old man's nod, and sang again, and again, till her throat felt tight, her voice grew husky and her eyes smarted with the unaccustomed tobacco fumes. But her audience was insatiable.

A noisy student rapped loudly on his table and called for yet another song. His companions echoed the command and leered laughingly into her face.

From another table in a corner, a fat, oily looking man with diamonds on his fingers, and a heavy triple chin, beckoned to her with what he must have thought was an ingratiating smile. But the woman with him, a slim, dark little creature, with thickly rouged lips and cloudy black hair, jerked angrily at his arm, and he swung about in his chair so that Marie saw only his great back.

Brower, the proprietor, came up and patted her roughly on the shoulder.

"She caught on, Schultz," he wheezed in his heavy voice, that was habitually hoarse from beer and tobacco smoke. "I think she'll do!"

She had succeeded, objectionable and unpleasant as these surroundings and the people were. She had conquered, she had overcome the harrowing embarrassment that had shocked her refined nature. She felt a certain sense of pride that she had not failed, that she had not been vanquished by her weaker emotions. It gave her more confidence in herself. If she could do this, she could do other things, better, more suited to her temperament and ideals. She would endure this place only so long as she must, and at the first opportunity of a better position, leave it. Tired, but glad that for the immediate future at least she need not worry about the fewness of the pennies in her savings box, Marie slipped on her coat, and clinging to old Schultz's arm, trudged happily home.

After a few days, her shyness partly left her, she was more at ease, more sure of herself and the approval of her personality and singing was even more marked. The first time, the room had only been a blur. Her self-consciousness had made it impossible for her to note more than a vague outline, but now that the tension had relaxed somewhat, she was able to distinguish the details of her surroundings. She began to see here and there a beckoning finger that called her hospitably to share its owner's table. Sometimes she saw the angry frown and quick proprietory nudge of the woman who accompanied him and resented his interest in the little singer. She began to hear her name called in a familiar diminutive, as groups of students would ask for favorite songs. Secure under the shelter of Herr Schultz's wing, she smiled her thanks from the platform.

One night, she stood wrapped in her cloak, waiting for her guardian as he gathered up his music. The last guest was leaving beerily, and the greasy waiters were going about turning out the lights and mopping up the splashed tables.

Brower came heavily up to the platform. He looked at Marie with an unpleasant grin.

"Tired, Fräulein?" he asked, "never mind, you'll be home in a little while. You've done very well! But to-morrow, I want you to be nice to my friends."

Herr Schultz, without turning, stopped in his task of gathering the sheets of music, and the proprietor went on.

"To-morrow I want you to pay a few visits among the tables. Remember, the more we sell to drink, the more you are worth to me."

Schultz turned quickly, his heavy eyebrows drawn together in a frown, his weak mouth working tremulously.

"The Fräulein is only here to sing," he said, his voice shaking, "she does not go down among the tables."

"What have you got to say?" thundered Brower, "If you don't like the way this place is run, you can go! There are plenty of piano-players!"

Marie looked on in terror, only half understanding. Her face went white as she realized what this would mean.

"Oh, no," she begged, "if he goes I must go."

This was not what Brower wanted. The girl had really been a profitable investment. His clientele was pleased. New people were beginning to come. More money was being spent. Allowances must be made.

"Look here, Schultz," he growled, "everything will be all right, she needn't drink, I only want her to go about and be pleasant. You're here where you can watch her."

In Schultz's faithful breast, the knowledge of what it would mean at his age, to lose his position, struggled with his fear for Marie. Brower was right, there were so many piano-players, but he knew well what this sort of thing led to. He had seen it so often.

"She can't go down among the tables," he repeated doggedly.

Brower struggled between rage and cupidity. He would gladly have kicked the old man into the street, but the source of income which the girl meant, must not be lost.

"All right," he shrugged, and for the time, the matter was dropped.

CHAPTER V

One night, as she waited between songs, Marie let her eyes wander about the smoke-filled room and wondered, as she heard the occasional bursts of laughter, if these people who came here voluntarily were really enjoying life. She wondered if this meant happiness to them.

The ideas of right and wrong which had been learned in the convent and at home with her father, seemed so absolutely apart from what surrounded her now, that she had not even a means of comparison. This was simply different.

The young officer over whose boot she had stumbled that first night, was sitting sullenly at the table near her, and her glance wandered from him to the man at his elbow, the same who had reprimanded him for his rudeness.

He was a tall, thin man, older than the boy at his side, and wore the handsome uniform of a captain of cavalry. She was impressed by the straight, unbending attitude of his shoulders. The thin, hard mouth of the supersensualist somehow frightened her, although she was too inexperienced to know why. She was trying to analyze this fear, this aversion for a stranger, when she became conscious that he was staring at her, and for a moment she stared back fascinated into the brilliant eyes that held her own even against her will. With an effort, she turned away hastily, and busied herself with the piece of music she was holding.

Several times during the evening, she was conscious of those magnetic eyes which she avoided with a curious flutter at her heart. She had taken her seat beside the piano, when she saw Brower standing at the edge of the platform, beckoning to her.

Hesitatingly, she rose and went to him.

"Fräulein," he said with his oily smile, "my wife is here with some friends. We want you to join us for a little while."

Schultz swung around on the piano stool.

"No," he said, emphatically.

Brower shot him a glance charged with venom, a burst of rage trembling on his lips, which he controlled with an effort.

"What's the matter?" he growled. "My wife wants to meet her. Anything wrong with that?"

There was the look in Schultz's eyes of a faithful dog which cannot express the love it feels.

"She should not——" he began, "she——"

Brower turned to Marie.

"Don't you want to come, Fräulein?" he asked.

The girl was pathetically eager to give a sufficient measure of service for the compensation she received.

"I'll go," she said, timidly.

Brower's wife was a large, boldly handsome woman of about thirty-five. She had been a very pretty girl, and in spite of the artificial yellow of her carefully dressed hair, the over-red of her lips, the paint on her cheeks, she still bore some traces of her vanished beauty. She blazed with jewels which were obviously not all that their glitter proclaimed. To the observer it was very apparent that everything about her was a sham. It was even whispered that her marriage came under the same heading.

She greeted Marie with an over-effusiveness.

"Do sit down, Liebchen. My friends all like your singing so much." With a wave of her plump, bejeweled hand, she introduced the others at her table. "Herr Kranz, meet Fräulein Helmar; Herr Schnitzer, Fräulein Pragt."

Marie slipped into the chair Brower pulled out for her.

"I certainly like your singing, Fräulein," boomed Herr Kranz, in a voice that Marie felt certain must penetrate to every corner of the room; "but I like you better," and he smiled a broad smile, that lifted his heavy black mustache and showed an uneven row of discolored teeth. His prominent eyes took in her slender prettiness with an evident relish, and his thick bull-neck settled consciously into his collar as he pulled down a brilliant vest over his round paunch.

The other man who had been introduced as Herr Schnitzer, was stoop-shouldered and pale haired. His prominent Adam's apple slid up and down grotesquely as he ate the cheese sandwich that was before him.

"We like little blond singers," he said with his mouth full, but his eyes were fixed fatuously on Fräulein Pragt who simpered coyly. She was over-dressed, and over-plump, her empty, common face shone fair and bland, and her silly little red mouth was always half open.

Marie looked from one to the other with a feeling half of disgust, and half of pride in herself that she was different.

Brower patted her familiarly on the shoulder as he hailed a passing waiter.

"Fritz, bring Fräulein Helmar a sandwich and some beer," and he moved away to another table.

"Nothing for me, please," began Marie.

"Come, Herzchen, just a little something! One glass of beer," urged her hostess.

"I don't wish anything, thank you," said Marie, with quiet finality.

Frau Brower laughed loudly.

"No wonder you're so thin," she said, "a little more flesh on your bones wouldn't hurt you, Fräulein."

Kranz leaned toward her admiringly.

"You're young yet," he said, "you'll be just right in a year or so," and he put a moist hand over hers.

Marie shrank away, and Frau Brower laughed again offensively.

"She should have a sweetheart, Kranz, that's what she needs," she said. "Have you got one, Liebchen?"

Marie's face flushed.

"No," she said.

There was something about this girl's manner Frau Brower resented. She experienced the feeling all women of her type do, in the presence of one who is everything they are not. What right had she, a little singer in Brewer's café, to give herself airs? She'd put her in her proper place.

"Can't you get one?" she sneered.

Marie lifted her head proudly.

"I don't believe I want one," she said simply. "I'm here to sing, I haven't time for anything else!"

Kranz was eyeing her with open admiration, his prominent, dull eyes, looking ludicrously like a fish's. The other two were deep in a conversation that consisted mainly of guttural monosyllables from Schnitzer and conscious giggles from Fräulein Pragt.

Frau Brower looked at her insolently.

"I advise you to drop that stand-offish manner. It won't pay here. A fesches Mädel like you ought to have a dozen lovers! I'm going to bring a friend around to meet you!"

Marie flushed at the open coarseness in her voice. She shook her head.

"Thank you, but I'd rather not meet anyone," she said. "Herr Schultz takes me home every evening. He doesn't like me to meet strangers. I don't want to do anything to offend him."

This time the laughter was general.

"What do you care what that old fossil says?" began Frau Brower, and her husband, who had joined them again, frowned darkly as he looked toward the platform.

"Look here," he growled, "what's this? Am I paying you to be a fine lady? Do you think you're an opera singer?"

Marie's lips trembled. She rose to her feet.

"Please," she faltered, "I—I think I'd better go back." She was looking into Brewer's scowling face. She saw his eyes shift, and suddenly, a great change came over him. His anger seemed to vanish almost by magic, and an oily smile spread over his features.

"Never mind, Fräulein," he said, and she thought she saw him glance warningly at his wife, "we will excuse you if you want to go."

Marie turned to see the cause for this sudden change, and found herself looking straight into the burning eyes of the man who once before had come to her assistance.

He bowed slightly, with a smile that was so encouraging that the girl knew instinctively she owed Brewer's change of front to his interference. Trembling, she started back to the platform, the Captain standing aside and bowing his acknowledgment of her timid smile of thanks.

This man with his polished manner, his fine carriage, his trim uniform was more like the men she had met at her father's home, more her own class. His thin, aquiline face had smiled on her with what, in her ignorance of the world, she took to be kindly, fraternal interest.

Frau Brower, meanwhile, had watched this little by-play. Her face reddened under its coat of rouge.

"Brower," she choked, "are you going to be browbeaten in your own café?"

Her husband tried to stop her, a curious look of fear coming into his eyes as he glanced hurriedly at the Captain's table, but she went on angrily.

"Aren't you master in your own house? I wouldn't be ordered around by any——"

The man put a heavy hand on her arm.

"Halt's Maul, you fool," he said. "You don't know what you're saying, he's——" He bent and whispered something in her ear. What he said had the effect of instantly dissipating her wrath, and she, too, turned and glanced fearfully in the direction of the tall officer.

Brower swore under his breath and turned heavily away, leaving the others to comfort his spouse.

This was the beginning of Marie's visits among the tables. Once, Brower called her to explain one of her songs to a "particular friend" of his. Another time, she must go and ask some officers what they wanted her to sing next. Schultz, with a heavy heart had to let her go.

The Captain, whose friendly smile had struck an answering note in her heart, came sometimes three or four nights consecutively. Then, perhaps a week or ten days would elapse during which Marie looked in vain for the tall, lean figure. She forgot her vague fears of his cruel mouth anl brilliant eyes. Her heart was so sore and lonely in this unaccustomed place that it was a disappointment to her when she missed him. She had a curious sense of protection and security whenever the bright note of his uniform came through the green swinging-door, and he made his way to his usual table.

There was an undefinable air of reticence, a touch of the mystic about him, which aroused a feeling of interested curiosity in the girl's heart.

As she waited between songs, her naturally active mind amused itself by trying to read the different faces she saw before her. This man was the only one of whom she could form no conception. All the others were obviously what they were, he alone was different. And because it is the unknown which attracts, and because he had on several instances shielded her from rudeness, she began to think of him as a friend.

There was no one to point out to her that the brilliant eyes were cold and calculating, that the lines about the thin mouth and between his brows, were those experience writes. There was no one to tell her that this face which seemed to smile so kindly into hers, was that of a man who knows his ability to judge and compare the values of sophistication and inexperience, and who has used this knowledge for the domination and destruction of those weaker than himself.

One evening as she sat watching him, he glanced about the room in a coldly speculative fashion, as one who sees a vision that includes those about him. If she were privileged to see the picture in his mind she would have seen the gay uniforms about her changed into a dull gray, the jauntily set caps replaced by spiked helmets. A cold smile played about the thin lips, and his hand resting on the table unconsciously clinched as though it grasped the hilt of a sword. But she saw only the smile and not its meaning.

Gradually, she began under Brower's careful maneuvering, to go about among the tables. At first, her visits were very brief, but sometimes, some particular friend of the proprietor's detained her longer. On these occasions there was much laughter, jokes whose point she did not always see, and many rather rough compliments, but on the whole, nothing that offended her. Brower had seen to that. He knew that the watchful eyes of the old pianist followed Marie about the room, and it suited his purpose to see that both his fears and hers should be laid to rest.

To the Captain's table, however, she was never invited. There was only the friendly nod in passing, the kindly smile that said, "I know; I understand how out of place you are here, how different you are from the rest!"

And old Schultz, seeing the flutter in the laces of the girl's breast when the Captain came in, watching the flush on her cheek, when their eyes met, noting too, with a pang in his heart, the evident disappointment when he failed to appear, shook his head sadly.