THE BARON'S GLOVES;
OR,
AMY'S ROMANCE
"All is fair in love and war."
I
HOW THEY WERE FOUND
"What a long sigh! Are you tired, Amy?"
"Yes, and disappointed as well. I never would have undertaken this
journey if I had not thought it would be full of novelty, romance, and
charming adventures."
"Well, we have had several adventures."
"Bah! losing one's hat in the Rhine, getting left at a dirty little
inn, and having our pockets picked, are not what I call adventures. I
wish there were brigands in Germany--it needs something of that sort
to enliven its stupidity."
"How can you call Germany stupid when you have a scene like this
before you?" said Helen, with a sigh of pleasure, as she looked from
the balcony which overhangs the Rhine at the hotel of the "Three
Kings" at Coblentz. Ehrenbreitstein towered opposite, the broad river
glittered below, and a midsummer moon lent its enchantment to the
landscape.
As she spoke, her companion half rose from the low chair where she
lounged, and showed the pretty, piquant face of a young girl. She
seemed in a half melancholy, half petulant mood; and traces of recent
illness were visible in the languor of her movements and the pallor of
her cheeks.
"Yes, it is lovely; but I want adventures and romance of some sort
to make it quite perfect. I don't care what, if something would only
happen."
"My dear, you are out of spirits and weary now, to-morrow you'll be
yourself again. Do not be ungrateful to uncle or unjust to yourself.
Something pleasant will happen, I've no doubt. In fact, something
_has_ happened that you may make a little romance out of, perhaps, for
lack of a more thrilling adventure."
"What do you mean?" and Amy's listless face brightened.
"Speak low; there are balconies all about us, and we may be
overheard," said Helen, drawing nearer after an upward glance.
"What is the beginning of a romance?" whispered Amy, eagerly.
"A pair of gloves. Just now, as I stood here, and you lay with your
eyes shut, these dropped from the balcony overhead. Now amuse yourself
by weaving a romance out of them and their owner."
Amy seized them, and stepping inside the window, examined them by the
candle.
"A gentleman's gloves, scented with violets! Here's a little hole
fretted by a ring on the third finger. Bless me! here are the
initials, 'S.P.,' stamped on the inside, with a coat of arms below.
What a fop to get up his gloves in this style! They are exquisite,
though. Such a delicate color, so little soiled, and so prettily
ornamented! Handsome hands wore these. I'd like to see the man."
Helen laughed at the girl's interest, and was satisfied if any trifle
amused her _ennui_.
"I will send them back by the _kellner_, and in that way we may
discover their owner," she said.
But Amy arrested her on the way to the door.
"I've a better plan; these waiters are so stupid you'll get nothing
out of them. Here's the hotel book sent up for our names; let us look
among the day's arrivals and see who 'S.P.' is. He came to-day, I'm
sure, for the man said the rooms above were just taken, so we could
not have them."
Opening the big book, Amy was soon intently poring over the long list
of names, written in many hands and many languages.
"I've got it! Here he is--oh, Nell, he's a baron! Isn't that charming?
'Sigismund von Palsdorf, Dresden.' We _must_ see him, for I know he's
handsome, if he wears such distracting gloves."
"You'd better take them up yourself, then."
"You know I can't do that; but I shall ask the man a few questions,
just to get an idea what sort of person the baron is. Then I shall
change my mind and go down to dinner; shall look well about me, and if
the baron is agreeable I shall make uncle return the gloves. He will
thank us, and I can say I've known a real baron. That will be so nice
when we go home. Now, don't be duennaish and say I'm silly, but let me
do as I like, and come and dress."
Helen submitted, and when the gong pealed through the house, Major
Erskine marched into the great _salle à manger_, with a comely niece
on each arm. The long tables were crowded, and they had to run the
gauntlet of many eyes as they made their way to the head of the upper
table. Before she touched her soup, Amy glanced down the line of
faces opposite, and finding none that answered the slight description
elicited from the waiter, she leaned a little forward to examine those
on her own side of the table. Some way down sat several gentlemen, and
as she bent to observe them, one did the same, and she received an
admiring glance from a pair of fine black eyes. Somewhat abashed, she
busied herself with her soup: but the fancy had taken possession of
her, and presently she whispered to Helen,--
"Do you see any signs of the baron?"
"On my left; look at the hands."
Amy looked and saw a white, shapely hand with an antique ring on the
third finger. Its owner's face was averted, but as he conversed with
animation, the hand was in full play, now emphasizing an opinion, now
lifting a glass, or more frequently pulling at a blond beard which
adorned the face of the unknown. Amy shook her head decidedly.
"I hate light men, and don't think that is the baron, for the gloves
are a size too small for those hands. Lean back and look some four or
five seats lower down on the right. See what sort of person the dark
man with the fine eyes is."
Helen obeyed, but almost instantly bent to her plate again, smiling in
spite of herself.
"That is an Englishman; he stares rudely, says 'By Jove!' and wears no
jewelry or beard."
"Now, I'm disappointed. Well, keep on the watch, and tell me if you
make any discoveries, for I _will_ find the baron."
Being hungry, Amy devoted herself to her dinner, till dessert was on
the table. She was languidly eating grapes, while Helen talked with
the major, when the word "baron" caught her ear. The speakers sat at a
table behind her, so that she could not see them without turning quite
round, which was impossible; but she listened eagerly to the following
scrap of chat:--
"Is the baron going on to-morrow?" asked a gay voice in French.
"Yes, he is bound for Baden-Baden. The season is at its height, and he
must make his game while the ball is rolling, or it is all up with the
open-handed Sigismund," answered a rough voice.
"Won't his father pardon the last escapade?" asked a third, with a
laugh.
"No, and he is right. The duel was a bad affair, for the man almost
died, and the baron barely managed to get out of the scrape through
court influence. When is the wedding to be?"
"Never, Palsdorf says. There is everything but love in the bargain,
and he swears he'll not agree to it. I like that."
"There is much nobleness in him, spite of his vagaries. He will sow
his wild oats and make a grand man in time. By the by, if we are going
to the fortress, we must be off. Give Sigismund the word; he is dining
at the other table with Power," said the gay voice.
"Take a look at the pretty English girl as you go by; it will do your
eyes good, after the fat Frauleins we have seen of late," added the
rough one.
Three gentlemen rose, and as they passed Amy stole a glance at them;
but seeing several pairs of eyes fixed on herself, she turned away
blushing, with the not unpleasant consciousness that "the pretty
English girl" was herself. Longing to see which Sigismund was, she
ventured to look after the young men, who paused behind the man with
the blond beard, and also touched the dark-eyed gentleman on the
shoulder. All five went down the hall and stood talking near the door.
"Uncle, I wish to go," said Amy, whose will was law to the amiable
major. Up he rose, and Amy added, as she took his arm, "I'm seized
with a longing to go to Baden-Baden and see a little gambling. You are
not a wild young man, so you can be trusted there."
"I hope so. Now you are a sensible little woman, and we'll do our best
to have a gay time. Wait an instant till I get my hat."
While the major searched for the missing article the girls went on,
and coming to the door, Amy tried to open it. The unwieldy foreign
lock resisted her efforts, and she was just giving it an impatient
little shake, when a voice said behind her,--
"Permit me, mademoiselle;" at the same moment a handsome hand turned
the latch, the flash of a diamond shone before her, and the door
opened.
"_Merci, monsieur_," she murmured, turning as she went out; but Helen
was close behind her, and no one else to be seen except the massive
major in the rear.
"Did you see the baron?" she whispered eagerly, as they went
up-stairs.
"No; where was he?"
"He opened the door for me. I knew him by his hand and ring. He was
close to you."
"I did not observe him, being busy gathering up my dress. I thought
the person was a waiter, and never looked at him," said Helen, with
provoking indifference.
"How unfortunate! Uncle, you are going to see the fortress; we don't
care for it; but I want you to take these gloves and inquire for Baron
Sigismund Palsdorf. He will be there with a party of gentlemen. You
can easily manage it, men are so free and easy. Mind what he is like,
and come home in time to tell me all about it."
Away went the major, and the cousins sat on the balcony enjoying the
lovely night, admiring the picturesque scene, and indulging in
the flights of fancy all girls love, for Helen, in spite of her
three-and-twenty years, was as romantic as Amy at eighteen. It was
past eleven when the major came, and the only greeting he received was
the breathless question,--
"Did you find him?"
"I found something much better than any baron, a courier. I've wanted
one ever since we started; for two young ladies and their baggage are
more than one man can do his duty by, Karl Hoffman had such excellent
testimonials from persons I know, that I did not hesitate to engage
him, and he comes to-morrow; so henceforth I've nothing to do but
devote myself to you."
"How very provoking! Did you bring the gloves back?" asked Amy, still
absorbed in the baron.
The major tossed them to her, and indulged in a hearty laugh at her
girlish regrets; then bade them good-night, and went away to give
orders for an early start next morning.
Tired of talking, the girls lay down in the two little white beds
always found in German hotels, and Amy was soon continuing in sleep
the romance she had begun awake. She dreamed that the baron proved to
be the owner of the fine eyes; that he wooed and won her, and they
were floating down the river to the chime of wedding-bells.
At this rapturous climax she woke to find the air full of music, and
to see Helen standing tall and white in the moonlight that streamed in
at the open window.
"Hush, hide behind the curtains and listen; it's a serenade,"
whispered Helen, as Amy stole to her side.
Shrouded in the drapery, they leaned and listened till the song ended,
then Amy peeped; a dark group stood below; all were bareheaded, and
now seemed whispering together. Presently a single voice rose, singing
an exquisite little French canzonet, the refrain of which was a
passionate repetition of the word "_Amie_." She thought she recognized
the voice, and the sound of her own name uttered in such ardent tones
made her heart beat and her color rise, for it seemed to signify that
the serenade was for them. As the last melodious murmur ceased, there
came a stifled laugh from below, and something fell into the balcony.
Neither dared stir till the sound of departing feet reassured them;
then creeping forward Amy drew in a lovely bouquet of myrtle, roses,
and great German forget-me-nots, tied with a white ribbon and
addressed in a dashing hand to _La belle Helène_.
"Upon my life, the romance has begun in earnest," laughed Helen,
as she examined the flowers. "You are serenaded by some unknown
nightingale, and I have flowers tossed up to me in the charming old
style. Of course it is the baron, Amy."
"I hope so; but whoever it is, they are regular troubadours, and I'm
delighted. I know the gloves will bring us fun of some kind. Do you
take one and I'll take the other, and see who will find the baron
first. Isn't it odd that they knew our names?"
"Amy, the writing on this card is very like that in the big book. I
may be bewitched by this mid-summer moonlight, but it really is very
like it. Come and see."
The two charming heads bent over the card, looking all the more
charming for the dishevelled curls and braids that hung about them as
the girls laughed and whispered together in the softly brilliant light
that filled the room.
"You are right; it is the same. The men who stared so at dinner are
gay students perhaps, and ready for any prank. Don't tell uncle, but
let us see what will come of it. I begin to enjoy myself heartily
now--don't you?" said Amy, laying her glove carefully away.
"I enjoyed myself before, but I think '_La belle Helène_' gives an
added relish to life, _Amie_," laughed Nell, putting her flowers in
water; and then both went back to their pillows, to dream delightfully
till morning.
II
KARL, THE COURIER
"Three days, at least, before we reach Baden. How tiresome it is that
uncle won't go faster!" said Amy, as she tied on her hat next morning,
wondering as she did so if the baron would take the same boat.
"As adventures have begun, I feel assured that they will continue to
cheer the way; so resign yourself and be ready for anything," replied
Helen, carefully arranging her bouquet in her travelling-basket.
A tap at the door, which stood half open, made both look up. A tall,
brown, gentlemanly man, in a gray suit, with a leathern bag slung over
his shoulder, stood there, hat in hand, and meeting Helen's eyes,
bowed respectfully, saying in good English, but with a strong German
accent,--
"Ladies, the major desired me to tell you the carriage waits."
"Why, who--" began Amy, staring with her blue eyes full of wonder at
the stranger.
He bowed again, and said, simply,--
"Karl Hoffman, at your service, mademoiselle."
"The courier--oh, yes! I forgot all about it. Please take these
things."
Amy began to hand him her miscellaneous collection of bags, books,
shawls and cushions.
"I'd no idea couriers were such decent creatures," whispered Amy, as
they followed him along the hall.
"Don't you remember the raptures Mrs. Mortimer used to have over their
Italian courier, and her funny description of him? 'Beautiful to
behold, with a night of hair, eyes full of an infinite tenderness, and
a sumptuous cheek.'"
Both girls laughed, and Amy averred that Karl's eyes danced with
merriment as he glanced over his shoulder, as the silvery peal sounded
behind him.
"Hush! he understands English; we must be careful," said Helen, and
neither spoke again till they reached the carriage.
Everything was ready, and as they drove away, the major, leaning
luxuriously back, exclaimed,--
"Now I begin to enjoy travelling, for I'm no longer worried by
the thought of luggage, time-tables, trains, and the everlasting
perplexity of thalers, kreutzers, and pfenniges. This man is a
treasure; everything is done in the best manner, and his knowledge of
matters is really amazing."
"He's a very gentlemanly-looking person," said Amy, eying a decidedly
aristocratic foot through the front window of the carriage, for Karl
sat up beside the driver.
"He _is_ a gentleman, my dear. Many of these couriers are well born
and educated, but, being poor, prefer this business to any other, as
it gives them variety, and often pleasant society. I've had a long
talk with Hoffman, and find him an excellent and accomplished fellow.
He has lost his fortune, it seems, through no fault of his own, so
being fond of a roving life, turned courier for a time, and we are
fortunate to have secured him."
"But one doesn't know how to treat him," said Helen. "I don't like
to address him as a servant, and yet it's not pleasant to order a
gentleman about."
"Oh, it will be easy enough as we go on together. Just call him
Hoffman, and behave as if you knew nothing about his past. He begged
me not to mention it, but I thought you'd like the romance of the
thing. Only don't either of you run away with him, as Ponsonby's
daughter did with her courier, who wasn't a gentleman, by the way."
"Not handsome enough," said Amy. "I don't like blue eyes and black
hair. His manners are nice, but he looks like a gipsy, with his brown
face and black beard: doesn't he, Nell?"
"Not at all. Gipsies haven't that style of face; they are thin, sharp,
and cunning in feature as in nature. Hoffman has large, well-moulded
features, and a mild, manly expression, which gives one confidence in
him."
"He has a keen, wicked look in his blue eyes, as you will see, Nell.
I mean mischievously, not malignantly wicked. He likes fun, I'm sure,
for he laughed about the 'sumptuous cheek' till his own were red,
though he dared not show it, and was as grave as an owl when we met
uncle," said Amy, smiling at the recollection.
"We shall go by boat to Biebrich, and then by rail to Heidelberg. We
shall get in late to-morrow night, but can rest a day, and then on to
Baden. Here we are; now make yourselves easy, as I do, and let Karl
take care of everything."
And putting his hands in his pockets, the major strolled about the
boat, while the courier made matters comfortable for the day. So
easily and well did he do his duty, that both girls enjoyed watching
him after he had established them on the shady side of the boat, with
camp-stools for their feet, cushions to lean on, books and bags laid
commodiously at hand.
As they sailed up the lovely Rhine they grew more and more
enthusiastic in their admiration and curiosity, and finding the meagre
description of the guide-books very unsatisfactory, Amy begged her
uncle to tell her all the legends of picturesque ruin, rock and river,
as they passed.
"Bless me, child, I know nothing; but here's Hoffman, a German born,
who will tell you everything, I dare say. Karl, what's that old castle
up there? The young ladies want to know about it."
Leaning on the railing, Hoffman told the story so well that he was
kept explaining and describing for an hour, and when he went away to
order lunch, Amy declared it was as pleasant as reading fairy tales to
listen to his dramatic histories and legends.
At lunch the major was charmed to find his favorite wines and dishes
without any need of consulting dictionary or phrase-book beforehand,
or losing his temper in vain attempts to make himself understood.
On reaching Biebrich, tired and hungry, at nightfall, everything was
ready for them, and all went to bed praising Karl, the courier, though
Amy, with unusual prudence, added,--
"He is a new broom now; let us wait a little before we judge."
All went well next day till nightfall, when a most untoward accident
occurred, and Helen's adventures began in earnest. The three occupied
a _coupé_, and being weary with long sitting, Helen got out at one of
the stations where the train paused for ten minutes. A rosy sunset
tempted her to the end of the platform, and there she found, what
nearly all foreign railway stations possess, a charming little garden.
Amy was very tired, rather cross, and passionately fond of flowers, so
when an old woman offered to pull a nosegay for "the gracious lady,"
Helen gladly waited for it, hoping to please the invalid. Twice the
whistle warned her, and at last she ran back, but only in time to see
the train move away, with her uncle gesticulating wildly to the guard,
who shook his stupid German head, and refused to see the dismayed
young lady imploring him to wait for her.
Just as the train was vanishing from the station, a man leaped from
a second-class carriage at the risk of his neck, and hurried back to
find Helen looking pale and bewildered, as well she might, left alone
and moneyless at night in a strange town.
"Mademoiselle, it is I; rest easy; we can soon go on; a train passes
in two hours, and we can telegraph to Heidelberg that they may not
fear for you."
"Oh, Hoffman, how kind of you to stop for me! What should I have done
without you, for uncle takes care of all the money, and I have only my
watch."
Helen's usual self-possession rather failed her in the flurry of the
moment, and she caught Karl's arm with a feminine little gesture of
confidence very pleasant to see. Leading her to the waiting-room, he
ordered supper, and put her into the care of the woman of the place,
while he went to make inquiries and dispatch the telegram. In half an
hour he returned, finding Helen refreshed and cheerful, though a trace
of anxiety was still visible in her watchful eyes.
"All goes excellently, mademoiselle. I have sent word to several posts
along the road that we are coming by the night train, so that Monsieur
le Major will rest tranquil till we meet. It is best that I give you
some money, lest such a mishap should again occur; it is not likely so
soon; nevertheless, here is both gold and silver. With this, one can
make one's way everywhere. Now, if mademoiselle will permit me to
advise, she will rest for an hour, as we must travel till dawn. I will
keep guard without and watch for the train."
He left her, and having made herself comfortable on one of the sofas,
she lay watching the tall shadow pass and repass door and window, as
Karl marched up and down the platform, with the tireless tramp of a
sentinel on duty. A pleasant sense of security stole over her, and
with a smile at Amy's enjoyment of the adventure when it was over,
Helen fell asleep.
A far-off shriek half woke her, and starting up, she turned to meet
the courier coming in to wake her. Up thundered the train, every
carriage apparently full of sleepy passengers, and the guard in a
state of sullen wrath at some delay, the consequences of which would
fall heaviest on him.
From carriage to carriage hurried Karl and his charge, to be met with
everywhere by the cry, "All full," in many languages, and with every
aspect of inhospitality. One carriage only showed two places; the
other seats were occupied by six students, who gallantly invited the
lady to enter. But Helen shrunk back, saying,--
"Is there no other place?"
"None, mademoiselle; this, or remain till morning," said Karl.
"Where will you go if I take this place?"
"Among the luggage,--anywhere; it is nothing. But we must decide at
once."
"Come with me; I'm afraid to be locked in here alone," said Helen,
desperately.
"Mademoiselle forgets I am her courier."
"I do not forget that you are a gentleman. Pray come in; my uncle will
thank you."
"I will," and with a sudden brightening of the eyes, a grateful
glance, and an air of redoubled respect, Hoffman followed her into the
carriage.
They were off at once, and the thing was done before Helen had time
to feel anything but the relief which the protection of his presence
afforded her.
The young gentlemen stared at the veiled lady and her grim escort,
joked under their breath, and looked wistfully at the suppressed
cigars, but behaved with exemplary politeness till sleep overpowered
them, and one after the other dropped off asleep to dream of their
respective Gretchens.
Helen could not sleep, and for hours sat studying the unconscious
faces before her, the dim landscape flying past the windows, or forgot
herself in reveries.
Hoffman remained motionless and silent, except when she addressed
him, wakeful also, and assiduous in making the long night as easy as
possible.
It was past midnight, and Helen's heavy eyelids were beginning to
droop, when suddenly there came an awful crash, a pang of mortal fear,
then utter oblivion.
As her senses returned she found herself lying in a painful position
under what had been the roof of the car; something heavy weighed
down her lower limbs, and her dizzy brain rung with a wild uproar of
shrieks and groans, eager voices, the crash of wood and iron, and the
shrill whistle of the engine, as it rushed away for help.
Through the darkness she heard the pant as of some one struggling
desperately, then a cry close by her, followed by a strong voice
exclaiming, in an agony of suspense,--
"My God, will no one come!"
"Hoffman, are you there?" cried Helen, groping in the gloom, with a
thrill of joy at the sound of a familiar voice.
"Thank heaven, you are safe. Lie still. I will save you. Help is
coming. Have no fear!" panted the voice, with an undertone of fervent
gratitude in its breathless accents.
"What has happened? Where are the rest?"
"We have been thrown down an embankment. The lads are gone for help.
God only knows what harm is done."
Karl's voice died in a stifled groan, and Helen cried out in alarm,--
"Where are you? You are hurt?"
"Not much. I keep the ruins from falling in to crush us. Be quiet,
they are coming."
A shout answered the faint halloo he gave as if to guide them to the
spot, and a moment after, five of the students were swarming about the
wreck, intent on saving the three whose lives were still in danger.
A lamp torn from some demolished carriage was held through an opening,
and Helen saw a sight that made her blood chill in her veins. Across
her feet, crushed and bleeding, lay the youngest of the students, and
kneeling close beside him was Hoffman, supporting by main strength a
mass of timber, which otherwise would fall and crush them all. His
face was ghastly pale, his eyes haggard with pain and suspense, and
great drops stood upon his forehead. But as she looked, he smiled with
a cheery.--
"Bear up, dear lady, we shall soon be out of danger. Now, lads, work
with a will; my strength is going fast."
They did work like heroes, and even in her pain and peril, Helen
admired the skill, energy, and courage of the young men, who, an hour
ago, had seemed to have no ideas above pipes and beer. Soon Hoffman
was free, the poor senseless youth lifted out, and then, as tenderly
as if she were a child, they raised and set her down, faint but
unhurt, in a wide meadow, already strewn with sad tokens of the wreck.
Karl was taken possession of as well as herself, forced to rest a
moment, drink a cordial draught from some one's flask, and be praised,
embraced, and enthusiastically blessed by the impetuous youths.
"Where is the boy who was hurt? Bring him to me. I am strong now.
I want to help. I have salts in my pocket, and I can bind up his
wounds," said Helen, soon herself again.
Karl and Helen soon brought back life and sense to the boy, and never
had human face looked so lovely as did Helen's to the anxious comrades
when she looked up in the moonlight with a joyful smile, and softly
whispered,--
"He is alive."
For an hour terrible confusion reigned, then the panic subsided a
little, and such of the carriages as were whole were made ready to
carry away as many as possible; the rest must wait till a return train
could be sent for them.
A struggle of course ensued, for every one wished to go on, and fear
made many selfish. The wounded, the women and children, were taken, as
far as possible, and the laden train moved away, leaving many anxious
watchers behind.
Helen had refused to go, and had given her place to poor Conrad,
thereby overwhelming his brother and comrades with gratitude. Two went
on with the wounded lad; the rest remained, and chivalrously devoted
themselves to Helen as a body-guard.
The moon shone clearly, the wide field was miles from any hamlet,
and a desolate silence succeeded to the late uproar, as the band of
waiters roamed about, longing for help and dawn.
"Mademoiselle, you shiver; the dew falls, and it is damp here; we must
have a fire;" and Karl was away to a neighboring hedge, intent on
warming his delicate charge if he felled a forest to do it.
The students rushed after him, and soon returned in triumph to build
a glorious fire, which drew all forlorn wanderers to its hospitable
circle. A motley assemblage; but mutual danger and discomfort produced
mutual sympathy and good will, and a general atmosphere of friendship
pervaded the party.
"Where is the brave Hoffman?" asked Wilhelm, the blond student, who,
being in the Werther period of youth, was already madly in love with
Helen, and sat at her feet catching cold in the most romantic manner.
"Behold me! The little ones cry for hunger, so I ransack the ruins and
bring away my spoils. Eat, Kinder, eat and be patient."
As he spoke Karl appeared with an odd collection of baskets, bags, and
bottles, and with a fatherly air that won all the mothers, he gave
the children whatever first appeared, making them laugh in spite of
weariness and hunger by the merry speeches which accompanied his
gifts.
"You too need something. Here is your own basket with the lunch I
ordered you. In a sad state of confusion, but still eatable. See,
it is not bad," and he deftly spread on a napkin before Helen cold
chicken, sandwiches, and fruit.
His care for the little ones as well as for herself touched her and
her eyes filled, as she remembered that she owed her life to him, and
recalled the sight of his face in the overturned car.
Her voice trembled a little as she thanked him, and the moonlight
betrayed her wet eyes. He fancied she was worn out with excitement and
fatigue, and anxious to cheer her spirits, he whispered to Wilhelm and
his mates,--
"Sing, then, comrades, and while away this tedious night. It is hard
for all to wait so long, and the babies need a lullaby."
The young men laughed and sang as only German students can sing,
making the night musical with blithe drinking songs, tender love-lays,
battle-hymns, and Volkslieder sweeter than any songs across the water.
Every heart was cheered and warmed by the magic of the music, the
babies fell asleep, strangers grew friendly, fear changed to courage,
and the most forlorn felt the romance of that bivouac under the summer
sky.
Dawn was reddening the east when a welcome whistle broke up the camp.
Every one hurried to the railway, but Helen paused to gather a handful
of blue forget-me-nots, saying to Hoffman, who waited with her wraps
on his arm,--
"It has been a happy night, in spite of the danger and discomfort. I
shall not soon forget it; and take these as a souvenir."
He smiled, standing bare-headed in the chilly wind, for his hat was
lost, his coat torn, hair dishevelled, and one hand carelessly bound
up in his handkerchief. Helen saw these marks of the night's labors
and perils for the first time, and as soon as they were seated desired
to see his hand.
"It is nothing,--a scratch, a mere scratch, I give you my word,
mademoiselle," he began, but Wilhelm unceremoniously removed the
handkerchief, showing a torn and bleeding hand which must have been
exquisitely painful.
Helen turned pale, and with a reproachful glance skilfully bound it up
again, saying, as she handed a silken scarf to Wilhelm,--
"Make of that a sling, please, and put the poor hand in it. Care must
be taken, or harm will come of it."
Hoffman submitted in bashful silence, as if surprised and touched by
the young lady's interest. She saw that, and added gratefully,--
"I do not forget that you saved my life, though you seem to have done
so. My uncle will thank you better than I can."
"I already have my reward, mademoiselle," he returned, with a
respectful inclination and a look she could neither understand nor
forget.
III
AMY'S ADVENTURE
The excitement and suspense of the major and Amy can be imagined when
news of the accident reached them. Their gratitude and relief were
intense when Helen appeared next morning, with the faithful Hoffman
still at his post, though no longer able to disguise the fact that he
was suffering from his wound.
When the story had been told, Karl was put under the surgeon's care,
and all remained at Heidelberg for several days to rest and recover.
On the afternoon of the last day the major and young ladies drove off
to the castle for a farewell view. Helen began to sketch the great
stone lion's head above the grand terrace, the major smoked and
chatted with a party of English artists whom he had met, and Amy,
with a little lad for a guide, explored the old castle to her heart's
content.
The sun set, and twilight began to fall when Helen put up her pencils,
and the major set off to find Amy, who had been appearing and
disappearing in every nook and cranny of the half-ruined castle.
Nowhere could he find her, and no voice answered when he called. The
other visitors were gone, and the place seemed deserted, except by
themselves and the old man who showed the ruins.
Becoming alarmed lest the girl had fallen somewhere, or lost her way
among the vaults where the famous Tun lies, the major called out old
Hans with his lantern, and searched high and low.
Amy's hat, full of flowers and ferns, was found in the Lady's Walk, as
the little terrace is called, but no other trace appeared, and Helen
hurried to and fro in great distress, fearing all manner of dangers.
Meanwhile Amy, having explored every other part of the castle, went to
take another look at the Tun, the dwarf, and the vaults.
Now little Anderl, her guide, had a great fear of ghosts, and legions
were said to haunt the ruins after nightfall, so when Amy rambled on
deeper and deeper into the gloom the boy's courage ebbed away with
every step; yet he was ashamed to own his fear, seeing that she had
none.
Amy wanted to see a certain cell, where a nun was said to have pined
to death because she would not listen to the Margraf's love. The
legend pleased the romantic girl, and forgetful of waning daylight,
gathering damps, and Anderl's reluctant service, she ran on, up steps
and down, delighted with little arched doors, rusty chains on the
walls, glimpses of sky through shattered roofs, and all manner of
mysterious nooks and corners. Coming at last to a narrow cell, with a
stone table, and heavy bolts on the old door, she felt sure this was
poor Elfrida's prison, and called Anderl to come on with his candle,
for the boy had lighted one, for his own comfort rather than hers. Her
call was unanswered, and glancing back, she saw the candle placed on
the ground, but no Anderl.
"Little coward, he has run away," she said, laughing; and having
satisfied her curiosity, turned to retrace her steps,--no easy task to
one ignorant of the way, for vault after vault opened on both sides,
and no path was discernible. In vain she tried to recall some
landmark, the gloom had deepened and nothing was clear. On she
hurried, but found no opening, and really frightened, stopped at last,
calling the boy in a voice that woke a hundred echoes. But Anderl had
fled home, thinking the lady would find her way back, and preferring
to lose his kreutzers to seeing a ghost.
Poor Amy's bewilderment and alarm increased with every moment's delay,
and hoping to come out somewhere, she ran on till a misstep jostled
the candle from her hand and extinguished it.
Left in the dark, her courage deserted her, and she screamed
desperately, like a lost child, and was fast getting into a state of
frantic terror, when the sound of an approaching step reassured her.
Holding her breath, she heard a quick tread drawing nearer, as if
guided by her cries, and, straining her eyes, she caught the outline
of a man's figure in the gloom.
A sensation of intense joy rushed over her, and she was about to
spring forward, when she remembered that as she could speak no German
how could she explain her plight to the stranger, if he understood
neither French nor English?
Fear took possession of her at the thought of meeting some rough
peasant, or some rollicking student, to whom she could make no
intelligible appeal or explanation.
Crouching close against the wall, she stood mute till the figure was
very near. She was in the shadow of an angle, and the man paused, as
if looking for the person who called for help.
"Who is lost here?" said a clear voice, in German.
Amy shrunk closer to the wall, fearing to speak, for the voice was
that of a young man, and a low laugh followed the words, as if the
speaker found the situation amusing.
"Mortal, ghost or devil, I'll find it," exclaimed the voice, and
stepping forward, a hand groped for and found her.
"Lottchen, is it thou? Little rogue, thou shalt pay dearly for leading
me such a chase."
As he spoke he drew the girl toward him, but with a faint cry, a vain
effort to escape, Amy's terror reached its climax, and spent with
fatigue and excitement, she lost consciousness.
"Who the deuce is it, then? Lottchen never faints on a frolic. Some
poor little girl lost in earnest. I must get her out of this gloomy
place at once, and find her party afterward."
Lifting the slight figure in his arms, the young man hurried on, and
soon came out through a shattered gateway into the shrubbery which
surrounds the base of the castle.
Laying her on the grass, he gently chafed her hands, eying the pale,
pretty face meantime with the utmost solicitude.
At his first glimpse of it he had started, smiled and made a gesture
of pleasure and surprise, then gave himself entirely to the task of
recovering the poor girl whom he had frightened out of her senses.
Very soon she looked up with dizzy eyes, and clasping her hands
imploringly, cried, in English, like a bewildered child,--
"I am lost! Oh, take me to my uncle."
"I will, the moment you can walk. Upon my soul, I meant to help you
when I followed; but as you did not answer, I fancied it was Lottchen,
the keeper's little girl. Pardon the fright I've caused you, and let
me take you to your friends."
The true English accent of the words, and the hearty tone of sincerity
in the apology, reassured Amy at once, and, rising, she said, with a
faint smile and a petulant tone,--
"I was very silly, but my guide ran away, my candle went out, I lost
the path, and can speak no German; so I was afraid to answer you at
first; and then I lost my wits altogether, for it's rather startling
to be clutched in the dark, sir."
"Indeed it is. I was very thoughtless, but now let me atone for
it. Where is your uncle, Miss Erskine?" asked the stranger, with
respectful earnestness.
"You know my name?" cried Amy in her impulsive way.
"I have that happiness," was the answer, with a smile.
"But I don't know _you_, sir;" and she peered at him, trying to see
his face in the darkness, for the copse was thick, and twilight had
come on rapidly.
"Not yet; I live in hope. Shall we go? Your uncle will be uneasy."
"Where are we?" asked Amy, glad to move on, for the interview was
becoming too personal even for her, and the stranger's manner
fluttered her, though she enjoyed the romance of the adventure
immensely.
"We are in the park which surrounds the castle. You were near the
entrance to it from the vaults when you fainted."
"I wish I had kept on a little longer, and not disgraced myself by
such a panic."
"Nay, that is a cruel wish, for then I should have lost the happiness
of helping you."
They had been walking side by side, but were forced to pause on
reaching a broken flight of steps, for Amy could not see the way
before her.
"Let me lead you; it is steep and dark, but better than going a long
way round through the dew," he said, offering his hand.
"Must we return by these dreadful vaults?" faltered Amy, shrinking
back.
"It is the shortest and safest route, I assure you."
"Are you sure you know the way?"
"Quite sure. I have lived here by the week together. Do you fear to
trust me?"
"No; but it is so dark, and everything is so strange to me. Can we get
down safely? I see nothing but a black pit."
And Amy still hesitated, with an odd mixture of fear and coquetry.
"I brought you up in safety; shall I take you down again?" asked the
stranger, with a smile flickering over his face.
Amy felt rather than saw it, and assuming an air of dignified
displeasure, motioned him to proceed, which he did for three steps;
then Amy slipped, and gladly caught at the arm extended to save her.
Without a word he took her hand and led her back through the labyrinth
she had threaded in her bewilderment. A dim light filled the place,
but with unerring steps her guide went on till they emerged into the
courtyard.
Major Erskine's voice was audible, giving directions to the keeper,
and Helen's figure visible as she groped among the shadows of the
ruined chapel for her cousin.
"There are my friends. Now I am safe. Come and let them thank you,"
cried Amy, in her frank, childlike warmth of manner.
"I want no thanks--forgive me--adieu," and hastily kissing the little
hand that had lain so confidingly in his, the stranger was gone.
Amy rushed at once to Helen, and when the lost lamb had been welcomed,
chidden, and exulted over, they drove home, listening to the very
brief account which Amy gave of her adventure.
"Naughty little gad-about, how could you go and terrify me so,
wandering in vaults with mysterious strangers, like the Countess of
Rudolstadt. You are as wet and dirty as if you had been digging a
well, yet you look as if you liked it," said Helen, as she led Amy
into their room at the hotel.
"I do," was the decided answer, as the girl pulled a handkerchief off
her head, and began to examine the corners of it. Suddenly she uttered
a cry and flew to the light, exclaiming,--
"Nell, Nell, look here! The same letters, 'S.P.,' the same coat of
arms, the same perfume--it was the baron!"
"What? who? are you out of your mind?" said Helen, examining the
large, fine cambric handkerchief, with its delicately stamped initials
under the stag's head, and three stars on a heart-shaped shield.
"Where did you get it?" she added, as she inhaled the soft odor of
violets shaken from its folds.
Amy blushed and answered shyly, "I didn't tell you all that happened
before uncle, but now I will. My hat was left behind, and when I
recovered my wits after my fright, I found this tied over my head. Oh,
Nell, it was very charming there in that romantic old park, and going
through the vaults with him, and having my hand kissed at parting. No
one ever did that before, and I like it."
Amy glanced at her hand as she spoke, and stood staring as if struck
dumb, for there on her forefinger shone a ring she had never seen
before.
"Look! look! mine is gone, and this in its place! Oh, Nell, what shall
I do?" she said, looking half frightened, half pleased.
Helen examined the ring and shook her head, for it was far more
valuable than the little pearl one which it replaced. Two tiny
hands of finest gold were linked together about a diamond of great
brilliancy; and on the inside appeared again the initials, "S.P."
"How did it happen?" she asked, rather sternly.
"Upon my word, I don't know, unless he put it on while I was stupidly
fainting. Rude man, to take advantage of me so. But, Nell, it is
splendid, and what _shall_ I do about it?"
"Tell uncle, find out the man and send back his things. It really is
absurd, the manner in which German boys behave;" and Helen frowned,
though she was strongly tempted to laugh at the whole thing.
"He was neither a German nor a boy, but an English gentleman, I'm
sure," began Amy, rather offended.
"But 'S.P.' is a baron, you know, unless there are two Richmonds in
the field," broke in Helen.
"I forgot that; never mind, it deepens the mystery; and after this
performance, I'm prepared for any enormity. It's my fate; I submit."
said Amy, tragically, as she waved her hand to and fro, pleased with
the flash of the ring.
"Amy, I think on the whole I won't speak to uncle. He is quick to take
offence, especially where we are concerned. He doesn't understand
foreign ways, and may get into trouble. We will manage it quietly
ourselves."
"How, Nell?"
"Karl is discreet; we will merely say we found these things and wish
to discover the owner. He may know this 'S.P.' and, having learned his
address, we can send them back. The man will understand; and as we
leave to-morrow, we shall be out of the way before he can play any new
prank."
"Have in Karl at once, for if I wear this lovely thing long I shall
not be able to let it go at all. How dared the creature take such a
liberty!" and Amy pulled off the ring with an expression of great
scorn.
"Come into the _salon_ and see what Karl says to the matter. Let me
speak, or you will say too much. One must be prudent before--"
She was going to say "servants," but checked herself, and substituted
"strangers," remembering gratefully how much she owed this man.
Hoffman came, looking pale, and with his hand in a sling, but was as
gravely devoted as ever, and listened to Helen's brief story with
serious attention.
"I will inquire, mademoiselle, and let you know at once. It is easy to
find persons if one has a clue. May I see the handkerchief?"
Helen showed it. He glanced at the initials, and laid it down with a
slight smile.
"The coat-of-arms is English, mademoiselle."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite so; I understand heraldry."
"But the initials stand for Sigismund Palsdorf, and we know he is a
German baron," broke in Amy, forgetting prudence in eagerness.
"If mademoiselle knows the name and title of this gentleman it will
not be hard to find him."
"We only fancy it is the same because of the initials. I dare say it
is a mistake, and the man is English. Inquire quietly, Hoffman, if
you please, as this ring is of value, and I wish to restore it to its
owner," said Helen, rather sharply.
"I shall do so, mademoiselle," and with his gentlemanly bow, the
courier left the room.
"Bless me, what's that?" cried Amy, a moment afterward, as a ringing
laugh echoed through the corridor,--a laugh so full of hearty and
infectious merriment that both girls smiled involuntarily, and Amy
peeped out to see who the blithe personage might be.
An old gentleman was entering his room near by, and Karl was just
about to descend the stairs. Both looked back at the girlish face
peeping at them, but both were quite grave, and the peal of laughter
remained a mystery, like all the rest of it.
Late in the evening Hoffman returned to report that a party of young
Englishmen had visited the castle that afternoon, and had left by
the evening train. One of them had been named Samuel Peters, and he,
doubtless, was the owner of the ring.
A humorous expression lurked in the couriers eye as he made his
report, and heard Amy exclaim, in a tone of disgust and comical
despair,--
"Samuel Peters! That spoils all the romance and dims the beauty of the
diamond. To think that a Peters should be the hero to whom I owe my
safety, and a Samuel should leave me this token of regard!"
"Hush, Amy," whispered Helen. "Thanks, Hoffman; we must wait now for
chance to help us."
IV
A POLISH EXILE
"Room for one here, sir," said the guard, as the train stopped at
Carlsruhe next day, on its way from Heidelberg to Baden.
The major put down his guide-book, Amy opened her eyes, and Helen
removed her shawl from the opposite seat, as a young man, wrapped in
a cloak, with a green shade over his eyes, and a general air of
feebleness, got in and sank back with a sigh of weariness or pain.
Evidently an invalid, for his face was thin and pale, his dark hair
cropped short, and the ungloved hand attenuated and delicate as a
woman's. A sidelong glance from under the deep shade seemed to satisfy
him regarding his neighbors, and drawing his cloak about him with a
slight shiver, he leaned into the corner and seemed to forget that he
was not alone.
Helen and Amy exchanged glances of compassionate interest, for women
always pity invalids, especially if young, comely and of the opposite
sex. The major took one look, shrugged his shoulders, and returned
to his book. Presently a hollow cough gave Helen a pretext for
discovering the nationality of the newcomer.
"Do the open windows inconvenience you, sir?" she asked, in English.
No answer; the question evidently unintelligible.
She repeated it in French, lightly touching his cloak to arrest his
attention.
Instantly a smile broke over the handsome mouth, and in the purest
French he assured her that the fresh air was most agreeable, and
begged pardon for annoying them with his troublesome cough.
"Not an invalid, I hope, sir?" said the major, in his bluff yet kindly
voice.
"They tell me I can have no other fate; that my malady is fatal; but I
still hope and fight for my life; it is all I have to give my country
now."
A stifled sigh and a sad emphasis on the last word roused the sympathy
of the girls, the interest of the major.
He took another survey, and said, with a tone of satisfaction, as
he marked the martial carriage of the young man, and caught a fiery
glance of the half-hidden eyes,--
"You are a soldier, sir?"
"I was; I am nothing now but an exile, for Poland is in chains."
The words "Poland" and "exile" brought up all the pathetic stories of
that unhappy country which the three listeners had ever heard, and won
their interest at once.
"You were in the late revolution, perhaps?" asked the major, giving
the unhappy outbreak the most respectful name he could use.
"From beginning to end."
"Oh, tell us about it; we felt much sympathy for you, and longed to
have you win," cried Amy, with such genuine interest and pity in her
tone, it was impossible to resist.
Pressing both hands upon his breast, the young man bent low, with a
flush of feeling on his pale cheek, and answered eagerly,--
"Ah, you are kind; it is balm to my sore heart to hear words like
these. I thank you, and tell you what you will. It is but little that
I do, yet I give my life, and die a long death, instead of a quick,
brave one with my comrades."
"You are young to have borne a part in a revolution, sir," said the
major, who pricked up his ears like an old war-horse at the sound of
battle.
"My friends and myself left the University at Varsovie, as volunteers;
we did our part, and now all lie in their graves but three."
"You were wounded, it seems?"
"Many times. Exposure, privation, and sorrow will finish what the
Russian bullets began. But it is well. I have no wish to see my
country enslaved, and I can no longer help her."
"Let us hope that a happier future waits for you both. Poland loves
liberty too well, and has suffered too much for it, to be kept long in
captivity."
Helen spoke warmly, and the young man listened with a brightening
face.
"It is a kind prophecy; I accept it, and take courage. God knows I
need it," he added, low to himself.
"Are you bound for Italy?" said the major, in a most un-English fit of
curiosity.
"For Geneva first, Italy later, unless Montreaux is mild enough for me
to winter in. I go to satisfy my friends, but doubt if it avails."
"Where is Montreaux?" asked Amy.
"Near Clarens, where Rousseau wrote his Heloise, and Vevay, where
so many English go to enjoy Chillon. The climate is divine for
unfortunates like myself, and life more cheap there than in Italy."
Here the train stopped again, and Hoffman came to ask if the ladies
desired anything.
At the sound of his voice the young Pole started, looked up, and
exclaimed, with the vivacity of a foreigner, in German,--
"By my life, it is Karl! Behold me, old friend, and satisfy me that it
is thyself by a handshake."
"Casimer! What wind blows thee hither, my boy, in such sad plight?"
replied Hoffman, grasping the slender hand outstretched to him.
"I fly from an enemy for the first time in my life, and, like all
cowards, shall be conquered in the end. I wrote thee I was better, but
the wound in the breast reopened, and nothing but a miracle will save
me. I go to Switzerland; and thou?"
"Where my master commands. I serve this gentleman, now."
"Hard changes for both, but with health thou art king of
circumstances, while I?--Ah well, the good God knows best. Karl, go
thou and buy me two of those pretty baskets of grapes; I will please
myself by giving them to these pitying angels. Speak they German?"
"One, the elder; but they understand not this rattle of ours."
Karl disappeared, and Helen, who _had_ understood the rapid dialogue,
tried to seem as unconscious as Amy.
"Say a friendly word to me at times; I am so homesick and
faint-hearted, my Hoffman. Thanks; they are almost worthy the lips
that shall taste them."
Taking the two little osier baskets, laden with yellow and purple
clusters, Casimer offered them, with a charming mixture of timidity
and grace, to the girls, saying, like a grateful boy,--
"You give me kind words and good hopes; permit that I thank you in
this poor way."
"I drink success to Poland." cried Helen, lifting a great, juicy grape
to her lips, like a little purple goblet, hoping to hide her confusion
under a playful air.
The grapes went round, and healths were drunk with much merriment,
for in travelling on the Continent it is impossible for the gruffest,
primmest person to long resist the frank courtesy and vivacious chat
of foreigners.
The major was unusually social and inquisitive, and while the soldiers
fought their battles over again the girls listened and took notes,
with feminine wits on the alert to catch any personal revelations
which might fall from the interesting stranger. The wrongs and
sufferings of Poland were discussed so eloquently that both young
ladies were moved to declare the most undying hatred of Russia,
Prussia, and Austria, the most intense sympathy for "poor Pologne."
All day they travelled together, and as Baden-Baden approached, they
naturally fell to talking of the gay place.
"Uncle, I must try my fortune once. I've set my heart upon it, and
so has Nell. We want to know how gamblers feel, and to taste the
fascination of the game which draws people here from all parts of
Europe," said Amy, in her half-pleading, half-imperious way.
"You may risk one napoleon each, as I foolishly promised you should,
when I little thought you would ever have an opportunity to remind me
of my promise. It's not an amusement for respectable Englishwomen, or
men either. You will agree with me there, monsieur?" and the major
glanced at the Pole, who replied, with his peculiar smile:--
"Surely, yes. It is great folly and waste of time and money; yet I
have known one man who found some good in it, or, rather, brought good
out of it. I have a friend who has a mania for giving. His own fortune
was spent in helping needy students at the University, and poor
professors. This displeased his father, and he refused supplies,
except enough for his simple personal wants. Sigismund chafed at this,
and being skilful at all games, as a gentleman may be in the way of
amusement, he resolved to play with those whose money was wasted on
frivolities, and give his winnings to his band of paupers."
"How did it succeed, this odd fancy?" asked Helen, with an interested
face, while Amy pinched her arm at the word "Sigismund."
"Excellently. My friend won often, and as his purpose became known it
caused no unkind feeling, this unusual success, for fortune seemed to
favor his kind object."
"Wrong, nevertheless, to do evil that good may come of it," said the
major, morally.
"It may be so: but it is not for me to censure my benefactor. He has
done much for my countrymen and myself, and is so truly noble I can
see no fault in him."
"What an odd name! Sigismund is German, is it not?" asked Amy, in the
most artless tone of interest.
"Yes, mademoiselle, and Palsdorf is a true German; much courage,
strength and intellect, with the gayety and simplicity of a boy. He
hates slavery of all kinds, and will be free at all costs. He is a
good son, but his father is tyrannical, and asks too much. Sigismund
will not submit to sell himself, and so is in disgrace for a time."
"Palsdorf!--was not that the name of the count or baron we heard them
talking of at Coblentz?" said Helen to Amy, with a well-feigned air of
uncertainty.
"Yes; I heard something of a duel and a broken betrothal, I think. The
people seemed to consider the baron a wild young man, so it could not
have been your friend, sir," was Amy's demure reply, glancing at Helen
with mirthful eyes, as if to say, "How our baron haunts us!"
"It is the same, doubtless. Many consider him wild, because he is
original, and dares act for himself. As it is well known, I may tell
you the truth of the duel and the betrothal, if you care to hear a
little romance."
Casimer looked eager to defend his friend, and as the girls were
longing to hear the romance, permission was given.
"In Germany, you know, the young people are often betrothed in
childhood by the parents, and sometimes never meet till they are
grown. Usually all goes well; but not always, for love cannot come at
command. Sigismund was plighted, when a boy of fifteen, to his
young cousin, and then sent away to the University till of age. On
returning, he was to travel a year or two, and then marry. He gladly
went away, and with increasing disquiet saw the time draw near when he
must keep his troth-plight."
"Hum! loved some one else. Very unfortunate to be sure," said the
major with a sigh.
"Not so; he only loved his liberty, and pretty Minna was less dear
than a life of perfect freedom. He went back at the appointed
time, saw his cousin, tried to do his duty and love her; found it
impossible, and, discovering that Minna loved another, vowed he would
never make her unhappiness as well as his own. The old baron stormed,
but the young one was firm, and would not listen to a marriage without
love; but pleaded for Minna, wished his rival success, and set out
again on his travels."
"And the duel?" asked the major, who took less interest in love than
war.
"That was as characteristic as the other act. A son of one high in
office at Berlin circulated false reports of the cause of Palsdorf's
refusal of the alliance--reports injurious to Minna. Sigismund settled
the matter in the most effectual manner, by challenging and wounding
the man. But for court influence it would have gone hardly with my
friend. The storm, however, has blown over; Minna will be happy with
her lover, and Sigismund with his liberty, till he tires of it."
"Is he handsome, this hero of yours?" said Amy, feeling the ring under
her glove, for in spite of Helen's advice, she insisted on wearing it,
that it might be at hand to return at any moment, should chance again
bring the baron in their way.
"A true German of the old type; blond and blue-eyed, tall and strong.
My hero in good truth--brave and loyal, tender and true," was the
enthusiastic answer.
"I hate fair men," pouted Amy, under her breath, as the major asked
some question about hotels.
"Take a new hero, then; nothing can be more romantic than that,"
whispered Helen, glancing at the pale, dark-haired figure wrapped in
the military cloak opposite.
"I will, and leave the baron to you;" said Amy, with a stifled laugh.
"Hush! Here are Baden and Karl," replied Helen, thankful for the
interruption.
All was bustle in a moment, and taking leave of them with an air
of reluctance, the Pole walked away, leaving Amy looking after him
wistfully, quite unconscious that she stood in everybody's way, and
that her uncle was beckoning impatiently from the carriage door.
"Poor boy! I wish he had some one to take care of him." she sighed,
half aloud.
"Mademoiselle, the major waits;" and Karl came up, hat in hand, just
in time to hear her and glance after Casimer, with an odd expression.
V
LUDMILLA
"I wonder what that young man's name was. Did he mention it, Helen?"
said the major, pausing in his march up and down the room, as if the
question was suggested by the sight of the little baskets, which the
girls had kept.
"No, uncle; but you can easily ask Hoffman," replied Helen.
"By the way, Karl, who was the Polish gentleman who came on with
us?" asked the major a moment afterward, as the courier came in with
newspapers.
"Casimer Teblinski, sir."
"A baron?" asked Amy, who was decidedly a young lady of one idea just
then.
"No, mademoiselle, but of a noble family, as the 'ski' denotes, for
that is to Polish and Russian names what 'von' is to German and 'de'
to French."
"I was rather interested in him. Where did you pick him up, Hoffman?"
said the major.
"In Paris, where he was with fellow-exiles."
"He is what he seems, is he?--no impostor, or anything of that sort?
One is often deceived, you know."
"On my honor, sir, he is a gentleman, and as brave as he is
accomplished and excellent."
"Will he die?" asked Amy, pathetically.
"With care he would recover, I think; but there is no one to nurse
him, so the poor lad must take his chance and trust in heaven for
help."
"How sad! I wish we were going his way, so that we might do something
for him--at least give him the society of his friend."
Helen glanced at Hoffman, feeling that if he were not already engaged
by them, he would devote himself to the invalid without any thought of
payment.
"Perhaps we are. You want to see the Lake of Geneva, Chillon, and that
neighborhood. Why not go now, instead of later?"
"Will you, uncle? That's capital! We need say nothing, but go on and
help the poor boy, if we can."
Helen spoke like a matron of forty, and looked as full of maternal
kindness as if the Pole were not out of his teens.
The courier bowed, the major laughed behind his paper, and Amy gave a
sentimental sigh to the memory of the baron, in whom her interest was
failing.
They only caught a glimpse of the Pole that evening at the Kursaal,
but next morning they met, and he was invited to join their party for
a little expedition.
The major was in fine spirits, and Helen assumed her maternal air
toward both invalids, for the sound of that hollow cough always
brought a shadow over her face, recalling the brother she had lost.
Amy was particularly merry and charming, and kept the whole party
laughing at her comical efforts to learn Polish and teach English as
they drove up the mountainside to the old Schloss.
"I'm not equal to mounting all those steps for a view I've seen a
dozen times; but pray take care of the child, Nell, or she'll get lost
again, as at Heidelberg," said the major, when they had roamed about
the lower part of the place; for a cool seat in the courtyard and a
glass of beer were more tempting than turrets and prospects to the
stout gentleman.
"She shall not be lost; I am her body-guard. It is steep--permit that
I lead you, mademoiselle;" Casimer offered his hand to Amy, and they
began their winding way. As she took the hand, the girl blushed and
half smiled, remembering the vaults and the baron.
"I like this better," she said to herself, as they climbed step by
step, often pausing to rest in the embrasures of the loopholes,
where the sun glanced in, the balmy wind blew, and vines peeped from
without, making a pretty picture of the girl, as she sat with rosy
color on her usually pale cheeks, brown curls fluttering about her
forehead, laughing lips, and bright eyes full of pleasant changes.
Leaning opposite in the narrow stairway, Casimer had time to study the
little tableau in many lights, and in spite of the dark glasses,
to convey warm glances of admiration, of which, however, the young
coquette seemed utterly unconscious.
Helen came leisurely after, and Hoffman followed with a telescope,
wishing, as he went, that his countrywomen possessed such dainty feet
as those going on before him, for which masculine iniquity he will be
pardoned by all who have seen the foot of a German Fraulein.
It was worth the long ascent, that wide-spread landscape basking in
the August glow.
Sitting on a fallen block of stone, while Casimer held a sun-umbrella
over her, Amy had raptures at her ease; while Helen sketched and asked
questions of Hoffman, who stood beside her, watching her progress with
interest. Once when, after repeated efforts to catch a curious effect
of light and shade, she uttered an impatient little exclamation, Karl
made a gesture as if to take the pencil and show her, but seemed to
recollect himself and drew back with a hasty "Pardon, mademoiselle."
Helen glanced up and saw the expression of his face, which plainly
betrayed that for a moment the gentleman had forgotten he was a
courier. She was glad of it, for it was a daily trial to her to order
this man about; and following the womanly impulse, she smiled and
offered the pencil, saying simply,--
"I felt sure you understood it; please show me."
He did so, and a few masterly strokes gave the sketch what it needed.
As he bent near her to do this Helen stole a glance at the grave, dark
face, and suddenly a disturbed look dawned in the eyes fixed on the
glossy black locks pushed off the courier's forehead, for he had
removed his hat when she spoke to him. He seemed to feel that
something was amiss, shot a quick glance at her, returned the pencil
and rose erect, with an almost defiant air, yet something of shame in
his eye, as his lips moved as if to speak impetuously. But not a word
did he utter, for Helen touched her forehead significantly, and said
in a low tone,--
"I am an artist; let me recommend Vandyke brown, which is _not_
affected by heat."
Hoffman looked over his shoulder at the other pair, but Amy was
making an ivy wreath for her hat, and the Pole pulling sprays for the
absorbing work. Speaking rapidly, Karl said, with a peculiar blending
of merriment, humility, and anxiety in his tone,--
"Mademoiselle, you are quick to discover my disguise; will you also be
kind in concealing? I have enemies as well as friends, whom I desire
to escape: I would earn my bread unknown; Monsieur le Major keeps my
foolish secret; may I hope for equal goodness from yourself?"
"You may, I do not forget that I owe my life to you, nor that you are
a gentleman. Trust me, I never will betray you."
"Thanks, thanks! there will come a time when I may confess the truth
and be myself, but not yet," and his regretful tone was emphasized by
an impatient gesture, as if concealment was irksome.
"Nell, come down to lunch; uncle is signalling as if he'd gone mad.
No, monsieur, it is quite impossible; you cannot reach the harebells
without risking too much; come away and forget that I wanted them."
Amy led the way, and all went down more quietly than they came up,
especially Helen and Hoffman. An excellent lunch waited on one of the
tables in front of the old gateway, and having done justice to it, the
major made himself comfortable with a cigar, bidding the girls keep
near, for they must be off in half an hour. Hoffman went to see to the
horses, Casimer strolled away with him, and the young ladies went to
gather wild flowers at the foot of the tower.
"Not a harebell here; isn't it provoking, when they grow in tufts up
there, where one can't reach them. Mercy, what's that? Run, Nell, the
old wall is coming down!"
Both had been grubbing in a damp nook, where ferns and mosses grew
luxuriantly; the fall of a bit of stone and a rending sound above made
them fly back to the path and look up.
Amy covered her eyes, and Helen grew pale, for part way down the
crumbling tower, clinging like a bird to the thick ivy stems, hung
Casimer, coolly gathering harebells from the clefts of the wall.
"Hush; don't cry out or speak; it may startle him. Crazy boy! Let us
see what he will do," whispered Helen.
"He can't go back, the vines are so torn and weak; and how will he get
down the lower wall? for you see the ivy grows up from that ledge, and
there is nothing below. How could he do it? I was only joking when I
lamented that there were no knights now, ready to leap into a lion's
den for a lady's glove," returned Amy, half angry.
In breathless silence they watched the climber till his cap was full
of flowers, and taking it between his teeth, he rapidly swung down to
the wide ledge, from which there appeared to be no way of escape but a
reckless leap of many feet on to the turf below.
The girls stood in the shadow of an old gateway, unperceived, and
waited anxiously what should follow.
Lightly folding and fastening the cap together, he dropped it down,
and, leaning forward, tried to catch the top of a young birch rustling
close by the wall. Twice he missed it; the first time he frowned, but
the second he uttered an emphatic, "Deuce take it!"
Helen and Amy looked at each other with a mutual smile and
exclamation,--
"He knows some English, then!"
There was time for no more--a violent rustle, a boyish laugh, and down
swung the slender tree, with the young man clinging to the top.
As he landed safely, Helen cried, "Bravo!" and Amy rushed out,
exclaiming reproachfully, yet admiringly,--
"How could you do it and frighten us so? I shall never express a wish
before you again, for if I wanted the moon you'd rashly try to get it,
I know."
"_Certainement_, mademoiselle," was the smiling reply. Casimer
presented the flowers, as if the exploit was a mere trifle.
"Now I shall go and press them at once in uncle's guide-book. Come and
help me, else you will be in mischief again." And Amy led the way to
the major with her flowers and their giver.
Helen roamed into one of the ruined courts for a last look at a
fountain which pleased her eye. A sort of cloister ran round the
court, open on both sides, and standing in one of these arched nooks,
she saw Hoffman and a young girl talking animatedly. The girl was
pretty, well dressed, and seemed refusing something for which
the other pleaded eagerly. His arm was about her, and she leaned
affectionately upon him, with a white hand now and then caressing his
face, which was full of sparkle and vivacity now. They seemed about to
part as Helen looked, for the maiden standing on tiptoe, laughingly
offered her blooming cheek, and as Karl kissed it warmly, he said in
German, so audibly Helen heard every word,--
"Farewell, my Ludmilla. Keep silent and I shall soon be with you.
Embrace the little one, and do not let him forget me."
Both left the place as they spoke, each going a different way, and
Helen slowly returned to her party, saying to herself in a troubled
tone,--
"'Ludmilla' and 'the little one' are his wife and child, doubtless. I
wonder if uncle knows that."
When Hoffman next appeared she could not resist looking at him; but
the accustomed gravity was resumed, and nothing remained of the glow
and brightness he had worn when with Ludmilla in the cloister.
VI
CHATEAU DE LA TOUR
Helen looked serious and Amy indignant when their uncle joined them,
ready to set out by the afternoon train, all having dined and rested
after the morning's excursion.
"Well, little girls, what's the matter now?" he asked, paternally, for
the excellent man adored his nieces.
"Helen says it's not best to go on with the Pole, and is perfectly
nonsensical, uncle," began Amy, petulantly, and not very coherently.
"Better be silly now than sorry by and by. I only suggested that,
being interesting, and Amy romantic, she might find this young man too
charming, if we see too much of him," said Helen.
"Bless my soul, what an idea!" cried the major. "Why, Nell, he's an
invalid, a Catholic, and a foreigner, any one of which objections are
enough to settle that matter. Little Amy isn't so foolish as to be in
danger of losing her heart to a person so entirely out of the question
as this poor lad, is she?"
"Of course not. _You_ do me justice, uncle. Nell thinks she may pity
and pet any one she likes because she is five years older than I,
and entirely forgets that she is a great deal more attractive than a
feeble thing like me. I should as soon think of losing my heart to
Hoffman as to the Pole, even if he wasn't what he is. One may surely
be kind to a dying man, without being accused of coquetry;" and Amy
sobbed in the most heart-rending manner.
Helen comforted her by withdrawing all objections, and promising
to leave the matter in the major's hands. But she shook her head
privately when she saw the ill-disguised eagerness with which her
cousin glanced up and down the platform after they were in the train,
and she whispered to her uncle, unobserved,--
"Leave future meetings to chance, and don't ask the Pole in, if you
can help it."
"Nonsense, my dear. You are as particular as your aunt. The lad amuses
me, and you can't deny you like to nurse sick heroes," was all the
answer she got, as the major, with true masculine perversity, put his
head out of the window and hailed Casimer as he was passing with a
bow.
"Here, Teblinski, my good fellow, don't desert us. We've always a
spare seat for you, if you haven't pleasanter quarters."
With a flush of pleasure the young man came up, but hesitated to
accept the invitation till Helen seconded it with a smile of welcome.
Amy was in an injured mood, and, shrouded in a great blue veil,
pensively reclined in her corner as if indifferent to everything about
her. But soon the cloud passed, and she emerged in a radiant state of
good humor, which lasted unbroken until the journey ended.
For two days they went on together, a very happy party, for the major
called in Hoffman to see his friend and describe the places through
which they passed. An arrangement very agreeable to all, as Karl was a
favorite, and every one missed him when away.
At Lausanne they waited while he crossed the lake to secure rooms at
Vevay. On his return he reported that all the hotels and _pensions_
were full, but that at La Tour he had secured rooms for a few weeks in
a quaint old chateau on the banks of the lake.
"Count Severin is absent in Egypt, and the housekeeper has permission
to let the apartments to transient visitors. The suite of rooms I
speak of were engaged to a party who are detained by sickness--they
are cheap, pleasant, and comfortable. A _salon_ and four bed-rooms. I
engaged them all, thinking that Teblinski might like a room there till
he finds lodgings at Montreaux. We can enter at once, and I am sure
the ladies will approve of the picturesque place."
"Well done, Hoffman; off we go without delay, for I really long to
rest my old bones in something like a home, after this long trip,"
said the major, who always kept his little troop in light marching
order.
The sail across that loveliest of lakes prepared the new-comers to be
charmed with all they saw; and when, entering by the old stone gate,
they were led into a large saloon, quaintly furnished and opening into
a terrace-garden overhanging the water, with Chillon and the Alps in
sight, Amy declared nothing could be more perfect, and Helen's face
proved her satisfaction.
An English widow and two quiet old German professors on a vacation
were the only inmates besides themselves and the buxom Swiss
housekeeper and her maids.
It was late when our party arrived, and there was only time for a
hasty survey of their rooms and a stroll in the garden before dinner.
The great chamber, with its shadowy bed, dark mirrors, ghostly
wainscot-doors and narrow windows, had not been brightened for a long
time by such a charming little apparition as Amy when she shook out
her airy muslins, smoothed her curls, and assumed all manner of
distracting devices for the captivation of mankind. Even Helen, though
not much given to personal vanity, found herself putting flowers in
her hair, and studying the effect of bracelets on her handsome arms,
as if there was some especial need of looking her best on this
occasion.
Both were certainly great ornaments to the drawing-room that evening,
as the old professors agreed while they sat blinking at them, like a
pair of benign owls. Casimer surprised them by his skill in music,
for, though forbidden to sing on account of his weak lungs, he
played as if inspired. Amy hovered about him like a moth; the major
cultivated the acquaintance of the plump widow; and Helen stood at the
window, enjoying the lovely night and music, till something happened
which destroyed her pleasure in both.
The window was open, and, leaning from it, she was watching the lake,
when the sound of a heavy sigh caught her ear. There was no moon, but
through the starlight she saw a man's figure among the shrubs below,
sitting with bent head and hidden face in the forlorn attitude of one
shut out from the music, light, and gayety that reigned within.
"It is Karl," she thought, and was about to speak, when, as if
startled by some sound she did not hear, he rose and vanished in the
gloom of the garden.
"Poor man! he thought of his wife and child, perhaps, sitting here
alone while all the rest make merry, with no care for him. Uncle must
see to this;" and Helen fell into a reverie till Amy came to propose
retiring.
"I meant to have seen where all these doors led, but was so busy
dressing I had no time, so must leave it for my amusement to-morrow.
Uncle says it's a very Radcliffian place. How like an angel that man
did play!" chattered Amy, and lulled herself to sleep by humming the
last air Casimer had given them.
Helen could not sleep, for the lonely figure in the garden haunted
her, and she wearied herself with conjectures about Hoffman and his
mystery. Hour after hour rung from the cuckoo-clock in the hall, but
still she lay awake, watching the curious shadows in the room, and
exciting herself with recalling the tales of German goblins with which
the courier had amused them the day before.
"It is close and musty here, with all this old tapestry and stuff
about; I'll open the other window," she thought; and, noiselessly
slipping from Amy's side, she threw on wrapper and slippers, lighted
her candle and tried to unbolt the tall, diamond-paned lattice. It was
rusty and would not yield, and, giving it up, she glanced about to see
whence air could be admitted. There were four doors in the room, all
low and arched, with clumsy locks and heavy handles. One opened into
a closet, one into the passage; the third was locked, but the fourth
opened easily, and, lifting her light, she peeped into a small octagon
room, full of all manner of curiosities. What they were she had no
time to see, for her startled eyes were riveted on an object that
turned her faint and cold with terror.
A heavy table stood in the middle of the room, and seated at it,
with some kind of weapon before him, was a man who looked over his
shoulder, with a ghastly face half hidden by hair and beard, and
fierce black eyes as full of malignant menace as was the clinched hand
holding the pistol. One instant Helen looked, the next flung to the
door, bolted it and dropped into a chair, trembling in every limb. The
noise did not wake Amy, and a moment's thought showed Helen the wisdom
of keeping her in ignorance of this affair. She knew the major was
close by, and possessing much courage, she resolved to wait a little
before rousing the house.
Hardly had she collected herself, when steps were heard moving softly
in the octagon room. Her light had gone out as she closed the door,
and sitting close by in the dark, she heard the sound of some one
breathing as he listened at the key-hole. Then a careful hand tried
the door, so noiselessly that no sleeper would have been awakened; and
as if to guard against a second surprise, the unknown person drew two
bolts across the door and stole away.
"Safe for a time; but I'll not pass another night under this roof,
unless this is satisfactorily cleared up," thought Helen, now feeling
more angry than frightened.
The last hour that struck was three, and soon the summer dawn reddened
the sky. Dressing herself, Helen sat by Amy, a sleepless guard, till
she woke, smiling and rosy as a child. Saying nothing of her last
night's alarm, Helen went down to breakfast a little paler than usual,
but otherwise unchanged. The major never liked to be disturbed till
he had broken his fast, and the moment they rose from the table he
exclaimed,--
"Now, girls, come and see the mysteries of Udolpho."
"I'll say nothing, yet," thought Helen, feeling braver by daylight,
yet troubled by her secret, for Hoffman might be a traitor, and this
charming chateau a den of thieves. Such things had been, and she was
in a mood to believe anything.
The upper story was a perfect museum of antique relics, very
entertaining to examine. Having finished these, Hoffman, who acted as
guide, led them into a little gloomy room containing a straw pallet,
a stone table with a loaf and pitcher on it, and, kneeling before a
crucifix, where the light from a single slit in the wall fell on him,
was the figure of a monk. The waxen mask was life-like, the attitude
effective, and the cell excellently arranged. Amy cried out when she
first saw it, but a second glance reassured her, and she patted the
bald head approvingly, as Karl explained.--
"Count Severin is an antiquarian, and amuses himself with things of
this sort. In old times there really was a hermit here, and this is
his effigy. Come down these narrow stairs, if you please, and see the
rest of the mummery."
Down they went, and the instant Helen looked about her, she burst into
a hysterical laugh, for there sat her ruffian, exactly as she saw him,
glaring over his shoulder with threatening eyes, and one hand on the
pistol. They all looked at her, for she was pale, and her merriment
unnatural; so, feeling she had excited curiosity, she gratified it by
narrating her night's adventure. Hoffman looked much concerned.
"Pardon, mademoiselle, the door should have been bolted on this
side. It usually is, but that room being unused, it was forgotten. I
remembered it, and having risen early, crept up to make sure that you
did not come upon this ugly thing unexpectedly. But I was too late, it
seems; you have suffered, to my sorrow."
"Dear Nell, and that was why I found you so pale and cold and quiet,
sitting by me when I woke, guarding me faithfully as you promised you
would. How brave and kind you were!"
"Villain! I should much like to fire your own pistols at you for this
prank of yours."
And Casimer laughingly filliped the image on its absurdly aquiline
nose.
"What in the name of common sense is this goblin here for?" demanded
the major, testily.
"There is a legend that once the owner of the chateau amused himself
by decoying travellers here, putting them to sleep in that room, and
by various devices alluring them thither. Here, one step beyond the
threshold of the door, was a trap, down which the unfortunates were
precipitated to the dungeon at the bottom of the tower, there to die
and be cast into the lake through a water-gate, still to be seen.
Severin keeps this flattering likeness of the rascal, as he does
the monk above, to amuse visitors by daylight, not at night,
mademoiselle."
And Hoffman looked wrathfully at the image, as if he would much enjoy
sending it down the trap.
"How ridiculous! I shall not go about this place alone, for fear of
lighting upon some horror of this sort. I've had enough; come away
into the garden; it's full of roses, and we may have as many as we
like."
As she spoke Amy involuntarily put out her hand for Casimer to lead
her down the steep stone steps, and he pressed the little hand with a
tender look which caused it to be hastily withdrawn.
"Here are your roses. Pretty flower; I know its meaning in English,
for it is the same with us. To give a bud to a lady is to confess
the beginning of love, a half open one tells of its growth, and a
full-blown one is to declare one's passion. Do you have that custom in
your land, mademoiselle?"
He had gathered the three as he spoke, and held the bud separately
while looking at his companion wistfully.
"No, we are not poetical, like your people, but it is a pretty fancy,"
and Amy settled her bouquet with an absorbed expression, though
inwardly wondering what he would do with his flowers.
He stood silent a moment, with a sudden flush sweeping across his
face, then flung all three into the lake with a gesture that made the
girl start, and muttered between his teeth:
"No, no; for me it is too late."
She affected not to hear, but making up a second bouquet, she gave
it to him, with no touch of coquetry in compassionate eyes or gentle
voice.
"Make your room bright with these. When one is ill nothing is so
cheering as the sight of flowers."
Meantime the others had descended and gone their separate ways.
As Karl crossed the courtyard a little child ran to meet him with
outstretched arms and a shout of satisfaction. He caught it up and
carried it away on his shoulder, like one used to caress and be
caressed by children.
Helen, waiting at the door of the tower while the major dusted his
coat, saw this, and said, suddenly, directing his attention to man and
child,--
"He seems fond of little people. I wonder if he has any of his own."
"Hoffman? No, my dear; he's not married; I asked him that when I
engaged him."
"And he said he was not?"
"Yes; he's not more than five or six-and-twenty, and fond of a
wandering life, so what should he want of a wife and a flock of
bantlings?"
"He seems sad and sober sometimes, and I fancied he might have some
domestic trouble to harass him. Don't you think there is something
peculiar about him?" asked Helen, remembering Hoffman's hint that her
uncle knew his wish to travel incognito, and wondering if he would
throw any light upon the matter. But the major's face was impenetrable
and his answer unsatisfactory.
"Well, I don't know. Every one has some worry or other, and as for
being peculiar, all foreigners seem more or less so to us, they are so
unreserved and demonstrative. I like Hoffman more and more every day,
and shall be sorry when I part with him."
"Ludmilla is his sister, then, or he didn't tell uncle the truth. It
is no concern of mine; but I wish I knew," thought Helen anxiously,
and then wondered why she should care.
A feeling of distrust had taken possession of her and she determined
to be on the watch, for the unsuspicious major would be easily duped,
and Helen trusted more to her own quick and keen eye than to his
experience. She tried to show nothing of the change in her manner: but
Hoffman perceived it, and bore it with a proud patience which often
touched her heart, but never altered her purpose.
VII
AT FAULT
Four weeks went by so rapidly that every one refused to believe it
when the major stated the fact at the breakfast-table, for all had
enjoyed themselves so heartily that they had been unconscious of the
lapse of time.
"You are not going away, uncle?" cried Amy, with a panic-stricken
look.
"Next week, my dear; we must be off, for we've much to do yet, and I
promised mamma to bring you back by the end of October."
"Never mind Paris and the rest of it; this is pleasanter. I'd rather
stay here--"
There Amy checked herself and tried to hide her face behind her
coffee-cup, for Casimer looked up in a way that made her heart flutter
and her cheeks burn.
"Sorry for it, Amy; but go we must, so enjoy your last week with all
your might, and come again next year."
"It will never be again what it is now," sighed Amy; and Casimer
echoed the words "next year," as if sadly wondering if the present
year would not be his last.
Helen rose silently and went into the garden, for of late she had
fallen into the way of reading and working in the little pavilion
which stood in an angle of the wall, overlooking lake and mountains.
A seat at the opposite end of the walk was Amy's haunt, for she liked
the sun, and within a week or two something like constraint had
existed between the cousins. Each seemed happier apart, and each was
intent on her own affairs. Helen watched over Amy's health, but no
longer offered advice or asked confidence. She often looked anxious,
and once or twice urged the major to go, as if conscious of some
danger.
But the worthy man seemed to have been bewitched as well as the young
folks, and was quite happy sitting by the plump, placid widow, or
leisurely walking with her to the chapel on the hillside.
All seemed waiting for something to break up the party, and no one had
the courage to do it. The major's decision took every one by surprise,
and Amy and Casimer looked as if they had fallen from the clouds.
The persistency with which the English lessons had gone on was
amazing, for Amy usually tired of everything in a day or two. Now,
however, she was a devoted teacher, and her pupil did her great credit
by the rapidity with which he caught the language. It looked like
pleasant play, sitting among the roses day after day, Amy affecting to
embroider while she taught, Casimer marching to and fro on the wide,
low wall, below which lay the lake, while he learned his lesson; then
standing before her to recite, or lounging on the turf in frequent
fits of idleness, both talking and laughing a great deal, and
generally forgetting everything but the pleasure of being together.
They wrote little notes as exercises--Amy in French, Casimer in
English, and each corrected the other's.
All very well for a time; but as the notes increased the corrections
decreased, and at last nothing was said of ungrammatical French or
comical English and the little notes were exchanged in silence.
As Amy took her place that day she looked forlorn, and when her pupil
came her only welcome was a reproachful--
"You are very late, sir."
"It is fifteen of minutes yet to ten clocks," was Casimer's reply, in
his best English.
"Ten o'clock, and leave out 'of' before minutes. How many times must I
tell you that?" said Amy, severely, to cover her first mistake.
"Ah, not many times; soon all goes to finish, and I have none person
to make this charming English go in my so stupide head."
"What will you do then?"
"I _jeter_ myself into the lake."
"Don't be foolish; I'm dull to-day, and want to be cheered up; suicide
isn't a pleasant subject."
"Good! See here, then--a little _plaisanterie_--what you call joke.
Can you will to see it?" and he laid a little pink cocked-hat note on
her lap, looking like a mischievous boy as he did so.
"'Mon Casimer Teblinski;' I see no joke;" and Amy was about to tear it
up, when he caught it from destruction, and holding it out of reach,
said, laughing wickedly,--
"The 'mon' is one abbreviation of 'monsieur,' but you put no
little--how do you say?--period at the end of him; it goes now in
English--_My_ Casimer Teblinski,' and that is of the most charming
address."
Amy colored, but had her return shot ready.
"Don't exult; that was only an oversight, not a deliberate deception
like that you put upon me. It was very wrong and rude, and I shall not
forgive it."
"_Mon Dieu_! where have I gone in sinning! I am a _polisson_, as I say
each day, but not a villain, I swear to you. Say to me that which I
have made of wrong, and I will do penance."
"You told me '_Ma drogha_' was the Polish for 'My pupil,' and let me
call you so a long time; I am wiser now," replied Amy, with great
dignity.
"Who has said stupidities to you, that you doubt me?" and Casimer
assumed an injured look, though his eyes danced with merriment.
"I heard Hoffman singing a Polish song to little Roserl, the burden of
which was, '_Ma drogha, Ma drogha_,' and when I asked him to translate
it, those two words meant, 'My darling.' How dare you, ungrateful
creature that you are!"
As Amy spoke, half-confusedly, half-angrily, Casimer went down upon
his knees, with folded hands and penitent face, exclaiming, in good
English,--
"Be merciful to me a sinner. I was tempted, and I could not resist."
"Get up this instant, and stop laughing. Say your lesson, for this
will be your last," was the stern reply, though Amy's face dimpled all
over with suppressed merriment.
He rose meekly, but made such sad work with the verb "To love," that
his teacher was glad to put an end to it, by proposing to read her
French to him. It was "Thaddeus of Warsaw," a musty little translation
which she had found in the house, and begun for her own amusement.
Casimer read a little, seemed interested, and suggested that they read
it together, so that he might correct her accent. Amy agreed, and
they were in the heart of the sentimental romance, finding it more
interesting than most modern readers, for the girl had an improved
Thaddeus before her, and the Pole a fairer, kinder Mary Beaufort.
Dangerous times for both, but therein lay the charm; for, though Amy
said to herself each night, "Sick, Catholic, and a foreigner,--it can
never be," yet each morning she felt, with increasing force, how blank
her day would be without him. And Casimer, honorably restraining every
word of love, yet looked volumes, and in spite of the glasses, the
girl felt the eloquence of the fine eyes they could not entirely
conceal.
To-day, as she read, he listened with his head leaning on his hand,
and though she never had read worse, he made no correction, but sat so
motionless, she fancied at last that he had actually fallen asleep.
Thinking to rouse him, she said, in French,--
"Poor Thaddeus! don't you pity him?--alone, poor, sick, and afraid to
own his love."
"No, I hate him, the absurd imbecile, with his fine boots and plumes,
and tragedy airs. He was not to be pitied, for he recovered health, he
found a fortune, he won his Marie. His sufferings were nothing; there
was no fatal blight on him, and he had time and power to conquer his
misfortunes, while I--"
Casimer spoke with sudden passion, and pausing abruptly, turned his
face away, as if to hide some emotion he was too proud to show.
Amy's heart ached, and her eyes filled, but her voice was sweet and
steady, as she said, putting by the book, like one weary of it,--
"Are you suffering to-day? Can we do anything for you? Please let us,
if we may."
"You give me all I can receive; no one can help my pain yet; but a
time will come when something may be done for me; then I will speak."
And, to her great surprise, he rose and left her, without another
word.
She saw him no more till evening; then he looked excited, played
stormily, and would sing in defiance of danger. The trouble in Amy's
face seemed reflected in Helen's, though not a word had passed between
them. She kept her eye on Casimer, with an intentness that worried
Amy, and even when he was at the instrument Helen stood near him, as
if fascinated, watching the slender hands chase one another up and
down the keys with untiring strength and skill.
Suddenly she left the room and did not return. Amy was so nervous by
that time, she could restrain herself no longer, and slipping out,
found her cousin in their chamber, poring over a glove.
"Oh, Nell, what is it? You are so odd to-night I can't understand you.
The music excites me, and I'm miserable, and I want to know what has
happened," she said, tearfully.
"I've found him!" whispered Helen, eagerly, holding up the glove with
a gesture of triumph.
"Who?" asked Amy, blinded by her tears.
"The baron."
"Where?--when?" cried the girl, amazed.
"Here, and now."
"Don't take my breath away; tell me quick, or I shall get hysterical."
"Casimer is Sigismund Palsdorf, and no more a Pole than I am," was
Helen's answer.
Amy dropped in a heap on the floor, not fainting, but so amazed she
had neither strength nor breath left. Sitting by her, Helen rapidly
went on,--
"I had a feeling as if something was wrong, and began to watch. The
feeling grew, but I discovered nothing till to-day. It will make you
laugh, it was so unromantic. As I looked over uncle's things when the
laundress brought them this afternoon, I found a collar that was not
his. It was marked 'S.P.,' and I at once felt a great desire to know
who owned it. The woman was waiting for her money, and I asked her.
'Monsieur Pologne,' she said, for his name is too much for her. She
took it into his room, and that was the end of it."
"But it may be another name; the initials only a coincidence,"
faltered Amy, looking frightened.
"No, dear, it isn't; there is more to come. Little Roserl came crying
through the hall an hour ago, and I asked what the trouble was. She
showed me a prettily-bound prayer-book which she had taken from the
Pole's room to play with, and had been ordered by her mother to carry
back. I looked into it; no name, but the same coat-of-arms as the
glove and the handkerchief. To-night as he played I examined his
hands; they are peculiar, and some of the peculiarities have left
traces on the glove. I am sure it is he, for on looking back many
things confirm the idea. He says he is a _polisson_, a rogue, fond
of jokes, and clever at playing them. The Germans are famous for
masquerading and practical jokes; this is one, I am sure, and uncle
will be terribly angry if he discovers it."
"But why all this concealment?" cried Amy. "Why play jokes on us? You
look so worried I know you have not told me all you know or fear."
"I confess I do fear that these men are political plotters as well as
exiles. There are many such, and they make tools of rich and ignorant
foreigners to further their ends. Uncle is rich, generous, and
unsuspicious; and I fear that while apparently serving and enjoying us
they are using him."
"Heavens, it may be! and that would account for the change we see in
him. I thought he was in love with the widow, but that may be only a
cloak to hide darker designs. Karl brought us here, and I dare say it
is a den of conspirators!" cried Amy, feeling as if she were getting
more of an adventure than she had bargained for.
"Don't be alarmed! I am on the watch, and mean to demand an
explanation from uncle, or take you away on my own responsibility, if
I can."
Here a maid tapped to say that tea was served.
"We must go down, or some one will suspect trouble. Plead headache to
excuse your paleness, and I'll keep people away. We will manage the
affair and be off as soon as possible," said Helen, as Amy followed
her, too bewildered to answer.
Casimer was not in the room, the major and Mrs. Cumberland were
sipping tea side by side, and the professors roaming vaguely about. To
leave Amy in peace, Helen engaged them both in a lively chat, and her
cousin sat by the window trying to collect her thoughts. Some one was
pacing up and down the garden, hatless, in the dew.
Amy forgot everything but the danger of such exposure to her reckless
friend. His cloak and hat lay on a chair; she caught them up and
glided unperceived from the long window.
"You are so imprudent I fear for you, and bring your things," said a
timid voice, as the little white figure approached the tall black one,
striding down the path tempestuously.
"You to think of me, forgetful of yourself! Little angel of kindness,
why do you take such care of me?" cried Casimer, eagerly taking not
only the cloak, but the hands that held it.
"I pitied you because you were ill and lonely. You do not deserve
my pity, but I forgive that, and would not see you suffer," was the
reproachful answer, as Amy turned away.
But he held her fast, saying earnestly,--
"What have I done? You are angry. Tell me my fault and I will amend."
"You have deceived me."
"How?"
"Will you own the truth?" and in her eagerness to set her fears at
rest, Amy forgot Helen.
"I will."
She could not see his face, but his voice was steady and his manner
earnest.
"Tell me, then, is not your true name Sigismund Palsdorf?"
He started, but answered instantly,--
"It is not."
"You are not the baron?" cried Amy.
"No; I will swear it if you wish."
"Who, then, are you?"
"Shall I confess?"
"Yes, I entreat you."
"Remember, you command me to speak."
"I do. Who are you?"
"Your lover."
The words were breathed into her ear as softly as ardently, but they
startled her so much she could find no reply, and, throwing himself
down before her, Casimer poured out his passion with an impetuosity
that held her breathless.
"Yes, I love you, and I tell it, vain and dishonorable as it is in one
like me. I try to hide it. I say 'it cannot be.' I plan to go away.
But you keep me; you are angel-good to me; you take my heart, you care
for me, teach me, pity me, and I can only love and die. I know it is
folly; I ask nothing; I pray to God to bless you always, and I say,
Go, go, before it is too late for you, as now for me!"
"Yes, I must go--it is all wrong. Forgive me. I have been very
selfish. Oh, forget me and be happy," faltered Amy, feeling that her
only safety was in flight.
"Go! go!" he cried, in a heart-broken tone, yet still kissed and clung
to her hands till she tore them away and fled into the house.
Helen missed her soon after she went, but could not follow for several
minutes; then went to their chamber and there found Amy drowned in
tears, and terribly agitated.
Soon the story was told with sobs and moans, and despairing
lamentations fit to touch a heart of stone.
"I do love him--oh, I do; but I didn't know it till he was so unhappy,
and now I've done this dreadful harm. He'll die, and I can't help him,
see him, or be anything to him. Oh, I've been a wicked, wicked girl,
and never can be happy any more."
Angry, perplexed, and conscience-stricken, for what now seemed blind
and unwise submission to the major, Helen devoted herself to calming
Amy, and when at last the poor, broken-hearted little soul fell asleep
in her arms, she pondered half the night upon the still unsolved
enigma of the Baron Sigismund.
VIII
MORE MYSTERY
"Uncle, can I speak to you a moment?" said Helen, very gravely, as
they left the breakfast-room next morning.
"Not now, my dear, I'm busy," was the hasty reply, as the major
shawled Mrs. Cumberland for an early promenade.
Helen knit her brows irefully, for this answer had been given her half
a dozen times lately when she asked for an interview. It was evident
he wished to avoid all lectures, remonstrances, and explanations; and
it was also evident that he was in love with the widow.
"Lovers are worse than lunatics to manage, so it is vain to try to get
any help from him," sighed Helen, adding, as her uncle was gallantly
leading his stout divinity away into the garden: "Amy has a bad
headache, and I shall stay to take care of her, so we can't join
your party to Chillon, sir. We have been there once, so you needn't
postpone it for us."
"Very well, my dear," and the major walked away, looking much
relieved.
As Helen was about to leave the _salon_ Casimer appeared. A single
glance at her face assured him that she knew all, and instantly
assuming a confiding, persuasive air that was irresistible, he said,
meekly,--
"Mademoiselle, I do not deserve a word from you, but it desolates me
to know that I have grieved the little angel who is too dear to me.
For her sake, pardon that I spoke my heart in spite of prudence, and
permit me to send her this."
Helen glanced from the flowers he held to his beseeching face, and her
own softened. He looked so penitent and anxious, she had not the heart
to reproach him.
"I will forgive you and carry your gift to Amy on one condition," she
said, gravely.
"Ah, you are kind! Name, then, the condition. I implore you, and I
will agree."
"Tell me, then, on your honor as a gentleman, are you not Baron
Palsdorf?"
"On my honor as a gentleman, I swear to you I am not."
"Are you, in truth, what you profess to be?"
"I am, in truth, Amy's lover, your devoted servant, and a most unhappy
man, with but a little while to live. Believe this and pity me,
dearest Mademoiselle Helène."
She did pity him, her eyes betrayed that, and her voice was very kind,
as she said,--
"Pardon my doubts. I trust you now, and wish with all my heart that
it was possible to make you happy. You know it is not, therefore I am
sure you will be wise and generous, and spare Amy further grief by
avoiding her for the little time we stay. Promise me this, Casimer."
"I may see her if I am dumb? Do not deny me this. I will not speak,
but I must look at my little and dear angel when she is near."
He pleaded so ardently with lips and hands, and eager eyes, that Helen
could not deny him, and when he had poured out his thanks she left
him, feeling very tender toward the unhappy young lover, whose passion
was so hopeless, yet so warm.
Amy was at breakfast in her room, sobbing and sipping, moaning and
munching, for, though her grief was great, her appetite was good, and
she was in no mood to see anything comical in cracking eggshells
while she bewailed her broken heart, or in eating honey in the act of
lamenting the bitterness of her fate.
Casimer would have become desperate had he seen her in the little blue
wrapper, with her bright hair loose on her shoulders, and her
pretty face wet with tears, as she dropped her spoon to seize his
flowers,--three dewy roses, one a bud, one half and the other fully
blown, making a fragrant record and avowal of the love which she must
renounce.
"Oh, my dear boy! how can I give him up, when he is so fond, and I am
all he has? Helen, uncle must let me write or go to mamma. She shall
decide; I can't; and no one else has a right to part us," sobbed Amy,
over her roses.
"Casimer will not marry, dear; he is too generous to ask such a
sacrifice," began Helen, but Amy cried indignantly,--
"It is no sacrifice; I'm rich. What do I care for his poverty?"
"His religion!" hinted Helen, anxiously.
"It need not part us; we can believe what we will. He is good; why
mind whether he is Catholic or Protestant?"
"But a Pole, Amy, so different in tastes, habits, character, and
beliefs. It is a great risk to marry a foreigner; races are so
unlike."
"I don't care if he is a Tartar, a Calmuck, or any of the other wild
tribes; I love him, he loves me, and no one need object if I don't."
"But, dear, the great and sad objection still remains--his health. He
just said he had but a little while to live."
Amy's angry eyes grew dim, but she answered, with soft earnestness,--
"So much the more need of me to make that little while happy. Think
how much he has suffered and done for others; surely I may do
something for him. Oh, Nell, can I let him die alone and in exile,
when I have both heart and home to give him?"
Helen could say no more; she kissed and comforted the faithful little
soul, feeling all the while such sympathy and tenderness that she
wondered at herself, for with this interest in the love of another
came a sad sense of loneliness, as if she was denied the sweet
experience that every woman longs to know.
Amy never could remain long under a cloud, and seeing Helen's tears,
began to cheer both her cousin and herself.
"Hoffman said he might live with care, don't you remember? and Hoffman
knows the case better than we. Let us ask him if Casimer is worse. You
do it; I can't without betraying myself."
"I will," and Helen felt grateful for any pretext to address a
friendly word to Karl, who had looked sad of late, and had been less
with them since the major became absorbed in Mrs. Cumberland.
Leaving Amy to compose herself, Helen went away to find Hoffman. It
was never difficult, for he seemed to divine her wishes and appear
uncalled the moment he was wanted. Hardly had she reached her favorite
nook in the garden when he approached with letters, and asked with
respectful anxiety, as she glanced at and threw them by with an
impatient sigh,--
"Has mademoiselle any orders? Will the ladies drive, sail, or make a
little expedition? It is fine, and mademoiselle looks as if the air
would refresh her. Pardon that I make the suggestion."
"No, Hoffman, I don't like the air of this place, and intend to leave
as soon as possible." And Helen knit her delicate dark brows with
an expression of great determination. "Switzerland is the refuge of
political exiles, and I hate plots and disguises; I feel oppressed by
some mystery, and mean to solve or break away from it at once."
She stopped abruptly, longing to ask his help, yet withheld by a
sudden sense of shyness in approaching the subject, though she had
decided to speak to Karl of the Pole.
"Can I serve you, mademoiselle? If so, pray command me," he said,
eagerly, coming a step nearer.
"You can, and I intend to ask your advice, for there can be nothing
amiss in doing so, since you are a friend of Casimer's."
"I am both friend and confidant, mademoiselle," he answered, as
if anxious to let her understand that he knew all, without the
embarrassment of words. She looked up quickly, relieved, yet troubled.
"He has told you, then?"
"Everything, mademoiselle. Pardon me if this afflicts you; I am his
only friend here, and the poor lad sorely needed comfort."
"He did. I am not annoyed; I am glad, for I know you will sustain him.
Now I may speak freely, and be equally frank. Please tell me if he is
indeed fatally ill?"
"It was thought so some months ago; now I hope. Happiness cures many
ills, and since he has loved, he has improved. I always thought care
would save him; he is worth it."
Hoffman paused, as if fearful of venturing too far; but Helen seemed
to confide freely in him, and said, softly,--
"Ah, if it were only wise to let him be happy. It is so bitter to deny
love."
"God knows it is!"
The exclamation broke from Hoffman as if an irrepressible impulse
wrung it from him.
Helen started, and for a moment neither spoke. She collected herself
soonest, and without turning, said, quietly,--
"I have been troubled by a strong impression that Casimer is not what
he seems. Till he denied it on his honor I believed him to be Baron
Palsdorf. Did he speak the truth when he said he was not?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Then, Casimer Teblinski is his real name?"
No answer.
She turned sharply, and added,--
"For my
