Kitty's Class Day And Other Stories
by
Louisa M. Alcott
Part 4 out of 5
"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 Helene."
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 cousin's sake, I must know the truth. Several curious
coincidences make me strongly suspect that he is passing under an
assumed name."
Not a word said Hoffman, but looked on the ground, as motionless and
expressionless as a statue.
Helen lost patience, and in order to show how much she had discovered,
rapidly told the story of the gloves, ring, handkerchief, prayer-book
and collar, omitting all hint of the girlish romance they had woven
about these things.
As she ended, Hoffman looked up with a curious expression, in which
confusion, amusement, admiration and annoyance seemed to contend.
"Mademoiselle," he said, gravely, "I am about to prove to you that
I feel honored by the confidence you place in me. I cannot break my
word, but I will confess to you that Casimer does _not_ bear his own
name."
"I knew it!" said Helen, with a flash of triumph in her eyes. "He _is_
the baron, and no Pole. You Germans love masquerades and jokes. This
is one, but I must spoil it before it is played out."
"Pardon; mademoiselle is keen, but in this she is mistaken. Casimer is
_not_ the baron; he did fight for Poland, and his name is known and
honored there. Of this I solemnly assure you."
She stood up and looked him straight in the face. He met her eye to
eye, and never wavered till her own fell.
She mused a few minutes, entirely forgetful of herself in her
eagerness to solve the mystery.
Hoffman stood so near that her dress touched him, and the wind blew
her scarf against his hand; and as she thought he watched her while
his eyes kindled, his color rose, and once he opened his lips to
speak, but she moved at the instant, and exclaimed,--
"I have it!"
"Now for it," he muttered, as if preparing for some new surprise or
attack.
"When uncle used to talk about the Polish revolution, there was, I
remember a gallant young Pole who did something brave. The name
just flashed on me, and it clears up my doubts. Stanislas
Prakora--'S.P.'--and Casimer is the man."
Helen spoke with an eager, bright face, as if sure of the truth now;
but, to her surprise, Hoffman laughed, a short, irrepressible laugh,
full of hearty but brief merriment. He sobered in a breath, and with
an entire change of countenance said, in an embarrassed tone,--
"Pardon my rudeness; mademoiselle's acuteness threw me off my guard.
I can say nothing till released from my promise; but mademoiselle may
rest assured that Casimer Teblinski is as good and brave a man as
Stanislas Prakora."
Helen's eyes sparkled, for in this reluctant reply she read
confirmation of her suspicion, and thought that Amy would rejoice to
learn that her lover was a hero.
"You _are_ exiles, but still hope and plot, and never relinquish your
hearts' desire?"
"Never, mademoiselle!"
"You are in danger?"
"In daily peril of losing all we most love and long for," answered
Karl, with such passion that Helen found patriotism a lovely and
inspiring thing.
"You have enemies?" she asked, unable to control her interest, and
feeling the charm of these confidences.
"Alas! yes," was the mournful reply, as Karl dropped his eyes to hide
the curious expression of mirth which he could not banish from them.
"Can you not conquer them, or escape the danger they place you in?"
"We hope to conquer, we cannot escape."
"This accounts for your disguise and Casimer's false name?"
"Yes. We beg that mademoiselle will pardon us the anxiety and
perplexity we have caused her, and hope that a time will soon arrive
when we may be ourselves. I fear the romantic interest with which
the ladies have honored us will be much lessened, but we shall still
remain their most humble and devoted servants."
Something in his tone nettled Helen, and she said sharply,--
"All this may be amusing to you, but it spoils my confidence in others
to know they wear masks. Is your name also false?"
"I am Karl Hoffman, as surely as the sun shines, mademoiselle. Do not
wound me by a doubt," he said, eagerly.
"And nothing more?"
She smiled as she spoke, and glanced at his darkened skin with a shake
of the head.
"I dare not answer that."
"No matter; I hate titles, and value people for their own worth, not
for their rank."
Helen spoke impulsively, and, as if carried away by her words and
manner, Hoffman caught her hand and pressed his lips to it ardently,
dropped it, and was gone, as if fearing to trust himself a moment
longer.
Helen stood where he left her, thinking, with a shy glance from her
hand to the spot where he had stood,--
"It _is_ pleasant to have one's hand kissed, as Amy said. Poor Karl,
his fate is almost as hard as Casimer's."
Some subtile power seemed to make the four young people shun one
another carefully, though all longed to be together. The major
appeared to share the secret disquiet that made the rest roam
listlessly about, till little Roserl came to invite them to a _fete_
in honor of the vintage. All were glad to go, hoping in the novelty
and excitement to recover their composure.
The vineyard sloped up from the chateau, and on the hillside was a
small plateau of level sward, shadowed by a venerable oak now hung
with garlands, while underneath danced the chateau servants with their
families, to the music of a pipe played by little Friedel. As the
gentlefolk approached, the revel stopped, but the major, who was in an
antic mood and disposed to be gracious, bade Friedel play on, and as
Mrs. Cumberland refused his hand with a glance at her weeds, the major
turned to the Count's buxom housekeeper, and besought her to waltz
with him. She assented, and away they went as nimbly as the best. Amy
laughed, but stopped to blush, as Casimer came up with an imploring
glance, and whispered,--
"Is it possible that I may enjoy one divine waltz with you before I
go?"
Amy gave him her hand with a glad assent, and Helen was left alone.
Every one was dancing but herself and Hoffman, who stood near by,
apparently unconscious of the fact. He glanced covertly at her, and
saw that she was beating time with foot and hand, that her eyes shone,
her lips smiled. He seemed to take courage at this, for, walking
straight up to her, he said, as coolly as if a crown-prince,--
"Mademoiselle, may I have the honor?"
A flash of surprise passed over her face, but there was no anger,
pride, or hesitation in her manner, as she leaned toward him with a
quiet "Thanks, monsieur."
A look of triumph was in his eyes as he swept her away to dance, as
she had never danced before, for a German waltz is full of life and
spirit, wonderfully captivating to English girls, and German gentlemen
make it a memorable experience when they please. As they circled round
the rustic ball-room, Hoffman never took his eyes off Helen's, and,
as if fascinated, she looked up at him, half conscious that he was
reading her heart as she read his. He said not a word, but his
face grew very tender, very beautiful in her sight, as she forgot
everything except that he had saved her life and she loved him. When
they paused, she was breathless and pale; he also; and seating her he
went away to bring her a glass of wine. As her dizzy eyes grew clear,
she saw a little case at her feet, and taking it up, opened it. A worn
paper, containing some faded forget-me-nots and these words, fell
out,--
"Gathered where Helen sat on the night of August 10th."
There was just time to restore its contents to the case, when Hoffman
returned, saw it, and looked intensely annoyed as he asked, quickly,--
"Did you read the name on it?"
"I saw only the flowers;" and Helen colored beautifully as she spoke.
"And read _them_?" he asked, with a look she could not meet.
She was spared an answer, for just then a lad came up, saying, as he
offered a note,--
"Monsieur Hoffman, madame, at the hotel, sends you this, and begs you
to come at once."
As he impatiently opened it, the wind blew the paper into Helen's lap.
She restored it, and in the act, her quick eye caught the signature,
"Thine ever, Ludmilla."
A slight shadow passed over her face, leaving it very cold and quiet.
Hoffman saw the change, and smiled, as if well pleased, but assuming
suddenly his usual manner, said deferentially,--
"Will mademoiselle permit me to visit my friend for an hour?--she is
expecting me."
"Go, then, we do not need you," was the brief reply, in a careless
tone, as if his absence was a thing of no interest to any one.
"Thanks; I shall not be long away;" and giving her a glance that made
her turn scarlet with anger at its undisguised admiration, he walked
away, humming gayly to himself Goethe's lines,--
"Maiden's heart and city's wall
Were made to yield, were made to fall;
When we've held them each their day,
Soldier-like we march away."
IX
"S.P." AND THE BARON
Dinner was over, and the _salon_ deserted by all but the two young
ladies, who sat apart, apparently absorbed in novels, while each
was privately longing for somebody to come, and with the charming
inconsistency of the fair sex, planning to fly if certain somebodies
_did_ appear.
Steps approached; both buried themselves in their books; both held
their breath and felt their hearts flutter as they never had done
before at the step of mortal man. The door opened; neither looked up,
yet each was conscious of mingled disappointment and relief when the
major said, in a grave tone, "Girls, I've something to tell you."
"We know what it is, sir," returned Helen, coolly.
"I beg your pardon, but you don't, my dear, as I will prove in five
minutes, if you will give me your attention."
The major looked as if braced up to some momentous undertaking; and
planting himself before the two young ladies, dashed bravely into the
subject.
"Girls, I've played a bold game, but I've won it, and will take the
consequences."
"They will fall heaviest on you, uncle," said Helen, thinking he was
about to declare his love for the widow.
The major laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and answered, stoutly,--
"I'll bear them; but you are quite wrong, my dear, in your surmises,
as you will soon see. Helen is my ward, and accountable to me alone.
Amy's mother gave her into my charge, and won't reproach me for
anything that has passed when I explain matters. As to the lads they
must take care of themselves."
Suddenly both girls colored, fluttered, and became intensely
interested. The major's eyes twinkled as he assumed a perfectly
impassive expression, and rapidly delivered himself of the following
thunderbolt,--
"Girls, you have been deceived, and the young men you love are
impostors."
"I thought so," muttered Helen, grimly.
"Oh, uncle, don't, don't say that!" cried Amy, despairingly.
"It's true, my dears; and the worst of it is, I knew the truth all the
time. Now, don't have hysterics, but listen and enjoy the joke as I
do. At Coblentz, when you sat in the balcony, two young men overheard
Amy sigh for adventures, and Helen advise making a romance out of the
gloves one of the lads had dropped. They had seen you by day; both
admired you, and being idle, gay young fellows, they resolved
to devote their vacation to gratifying your wishes and enjoying
themselves. We met at the Fortress; I knew one of them, and liked the
other immensely; so when they confided their scheme to me I agreed
to help them carry it out, as I had perfect confidence in both, and
thought a little adventure or two would do you good."
"Uncle, you were mad," said Helen; and Amy added, tragically,--
"You don't know what trouble has come of it."
"Perhaps I was; that remains to be proved. I do know everything, and
fail to see any trouble, so don't cry, little girl," briskly replied
the inexplicable major. "Well, we had a merry time planning our prank.
One of the lads insisted on playing courier, though I objected. He'd
done it before, liked the part, and would have his way. The other
couldn't decide, being younger and more in love; so we left him to
come into the comedy when he was ready. Karl did capitally, as you
will allow; and I am much attached to him, for in all respects he has
been true to his word. He began at Coblentz; the other, after doing
the mysterious at Heidelberg, appeared as an exile, and made quick
work with the prejudices of my well-beloved nieces--hey, Amy?"
"Go on; who are they?" cried both girls, breathlessly.
"Wait a bit; I'm not bound to expose the poor fellows to your scorn
and anger. No; if you are going to be high and haughty, to forget
their love, refuse to forgive their frolic, and rend their hearts with
reproaches, better let them remain unknown."
"No, no; we will forget and forgive, only speak!" was the command of
both.
"You promise to be lenient and mild, to let them confess their
motives, and to award a gentle penance for their sins?"
"Yes, we promise!"
"Then, come in, my lads, and plead for your lives."
As he spoke the major threw open the door, and two gentlemen entered
the room--one, slight and dark, with brilliant black eyes; the other
tall and large, with blond hair and beard. Angry, bewildered, and
shame-stricken as they were, feminine curiosity overpowered all other
feelings for the moment, and the girls sat looking at the culprits
with eager eyes, full of instant recognition; for though the disguise
was off, and neither had seen them in their true characters but once,
they felt no doubt, and involuntarily exclaimed,--
"Karl!"
"Casimer."
"No, young ladies; the courier and exile are defunct, and from their
ashes rise Baron Sigismund Palsdorf, my friend, and Sidney Power, my
nephew. I give you one hour to settle the matter; then I shall return
to bestow my blessing or to banish these scapegraces forever."
And, having fired his last shot, the major prudently retreated,
without waiting to see its effect.
It was tremendous, for it carried confusion into the fair enemy's
camp; and gave the besiegers a momentary advantage of which they were
not slow to avail themselves.
For a moment the four remained mute and motionless: then Amy, like all
timid things, took refuge in flight, and Sidney followed her into the
garden, glad to see the allies separated. Helen, with the courage of
her nature, tried to face and repulse the foe; but love was stronger
than pride, maiden shame overcame anger, and, finding it vain to meet
and bear down the steady, tender glance of the blue eyes fixed upon
her, she dropped her head into her hands and sat before him, like one
conquered but too proud to cry "Quarter." Her lover watched her till
she hid her face, then drew near, knelt down before her, and said,
with an undertone of deep feeling below the mirthful malice of his
words,--
"Mademoiselle, pardon me that I am a foolish baron, and dare to offer
you the title that you hate. I have served you faithfully for a month,
and, presumptuous as it is, I ask to be allowed to serve you all my
life. Helen, say you forgive the deceit for love's sake."
"No; you are false and forsworn. How can I believe that anything is
true?"
And Helen drew away the hand of which he had taken possession.
"Heart's dearest, you trusted me in spite of my disguise; trust
me still, and I will prove that I am neither false nor forsworn.
Catechise me, and see if I was not true in spite of all my seeming
deception."
"You said your name was Karl Hoffman," began Helen, glad to gain a
little time to calm herself before the momentous question came.
"It is; I have many, and my family choose to call me Sigismund," was
the laughing answer.
"I'll never call you so; you shall be Karl, the courier, all your life
to me," cried Helen, still unable to meet the ardent eyes before her.
"Good; I like that well; for it assures me that all my life I shall be
something to you, my heart. What next?"
"When I asked if you were the baron, you denied it."
"Pardon! I simply said my name was Hoffman. You did not ask me point
blank if I was the baron; had you done so, I think I should have
confessed all, for it was very hard to restrain myself this morning."
"No, not yet; I have more questions;" and Helen warned him away, as it
became evident that he no longer considered restraint necessary.
"Who is Ludmilla?" she said, sharply.
"My faith, that is superb!" exclaimed the baron, with a triumphant
smile at her betrayal of jealousy. "How if she is a former love?" he
asked, with a sly look at her changing face.
"It would cause me no surprise; I am prepared for anything."
"How if she is my dearest sister, for whom I sent, that she might
welcome you and bring the greetings of my parents to their new
daughter?"
"Is it, indeed, so?"
And Helen's eyes dimmed as the thought of parents, home and love
filled her heart with tenderest gratitude, for she had long been an
orphan.
"_Leibchen_, it is true; to-morrow you shall see how dear you already
are to them, for I write often and they wait eagerly to receive you."
Helen felt herself going very fast, and made an effort to harden her
heart, lest too easy victory should reward this audacious lover.
"I may not go; I also have friends, and in England we are not won in
this wild way. I will yet prove you false; it will console me for
being so duped if I can call you traitor. You said Casimer had fought
in Poland."
"Crudest of women, he did, but under his own name, Sidney Power."
"Then, he was not the brave Stanislas?--and there is no charming
Casimer?"
"Yes, there are both,--his and my friends, in Paris; true Poles, and
when we go there you shall see them."
"But his illness was a ruse?"
"No; he was wounded in the war and has been ill since. Not of a fatal
malady, I own; his cough misled you, and _he_ has no scruples in
fabling to any extent. I am not to bear the burden of his sins."
"Then, the romances he told us about your charity, your virtues,
and--your love of liberty were false?" said Helen, with a keen glance,
for these tales had done much to interest her in the unknown baron.
Sudden color rose to his forehead, and for the first time his eyes
fell before hers,--not in shame, but with a modest man's annoyance at
hearing himself praised.
"Sidney is enthusiastic in his friendship, and speaks too well for me.
The facts are true, but he doubtless glorified the simplest by his
way of telling it. Will you forgive my follies, and believe me when I
promise to play and duel no more?"
"Yes."
She yielded her hand now, and her eyes were full of happiness, yet she
added, wistfully,--
"And the betrothed, your cousin, Minna,--is she, in truth, not dear to
you?"
"Very dear, but less so than another; for I could not learn of her in
years what I learned in a day when I met you. Helen, this was begun in
jest,--it ends in solemn earnest, for I love my liberty, and I have
lost it, utterly and forever. Yet I am glad; look in my face and tell
me you believe it."
He spoke now as seriously as fervently, and with no shadow on her own,
Helen brushed back the blond hair and looked into her lover's face.
Truth, tenderness, power, and candor were written there in characters
that could not lie; and with her heart upon her lips, she answered, as
he drew her close,--
"I do believe, do love you, Sigismund!" Meanwhile another scene was
passing in the garden. Sidney, presuming upon his cousinship, took
possession of Amy, bidding her "strike but hear him." Of course she
listened with the usual accompaniment of tears and smiles, reproaches
and exclamations, varied by cruel exultations and coquettish commands
to go away and never dare approach her again.
"_Ma drogha_, listen and be appeased. Years ago you and I played
together as babies, and our fond mammas vowed we should one day mate.
When I was a youth of fourteen and you a mite of seven I went away to
India with my father, and at our parting promised to come back and
marry you. Being in a fret because you couldn't go also, you haughtily
declined the honor, and when I offered a farewell kiss, struck me with
this very little hand. Do you remember it?"
"Not I. Too young for such nonsense."
"I do, and I also remember that in my boyish way I resolved to keep my
word sooner or later, and I've done it."
"We shall see, sir," cried Amy, strongly tempted to repeat her part of
the childish scene as well as her cousin, but her hand was not free,
and he got the kiss without the blow.
"For eleven years we never met. You forgot me, and 'Cousin Sidney'
remained an empty name. I was in India till four years ago; since then
I've been flying about Germany and fighting in Poland, where I nearly
got my quietus."
"My dear boy, were you wounded?"
"Bless you, yes; and very proud of it I am. I'll show you my scars
some day; but never mind that now. A while ago I went to England,
seized with a sudden desire to find my wife."
"I admire your patience in waiting; so flattering to me, you know,"
was the sharp answer.
"It looks like neglect, I confess; but I'd heard reports of your
flirtations, and twice of your being engaged, so I kept away till my
work was done. Was it true?"
"I never flirt, Sidney, and I was only engaged a little bit once or
twice. I didn't like it, and never mean to do so any more."
"I shall see that you don't flirt; but you are very much engaged now,
so put on your ring and make no romances about any 'S.P.' but myself."
"I shall wait till you clear your character; I'm not going to care for
a deceitful impostor. What made you think of this prank?"
"You did."
"I? How?"
"When in England I saw your picture, though you were many a mile away,
and fell in love with it. Your mother told me much about you, and I
saw she would not frown upon my suit. I begged her not to tell you I
had come, but let me find you and make myself known when I liked.
You were in Switzerland, and I went after you. At Coblentz I met
Sigismund, and told him my case; he is full of romance, and when we
overheard you in the balcony we were glad of the hint. Sigismund was
with me when you came, and admired Helen immensely, so he was wild to
have a part in the frolic. I let him begin, and followed you unseen to
Heidelberg, meaning to personate an artist. Meeting you at the castle,
I made a good beginning with the vaults and the ring, and meant to
follow it up by acting the baron, you were so bent on finding him, but
Sigismund forbade it. Turning over a trunk of things left there the
year before, I came upon my old Polish uniform, and decided to be a
Thaddeus."
"How well you did it! Wasn't it hard to act all the time?" asked Amy,
wonderingly.
"Very hard with Helen, she is so keen, but not a bit so with you, for
you are such a confiding soul any one could cheat you. I've betrayed
myself a dozen times, and you never saw it. Ah, it was capital fun to
play the forlorn exile, study English, and flirt with my cousin."
"It was very base. I should think you'd be devoured with remorse.
Aren't you sorry?"
"For one thing. I cropped my head lest you should know me. I was proud
of my curls, but I sacrificed them all to you."
"Peacock! Did you think that one glimpse of your black eyes and fine
hair would make such an impression that I should recognize you again?"
"I did, and for that reason disfigured my head, put on a mustache, and
assumed hideous spectacles. Did you never suspect my disguise, Amy?"
"No. Helen used to say that she felt something was wrong, but I never
did till the other night."
"Didn't I do that well? I give you my word it was all done on the spur
of the minute. I meant to speak soon, but had not decided how, when
you came out so sweetly with that confounded old cloak, of which I'd
no more need than an African has of a blanket. Then a scene I'd read
in a novel came into my head, and I just repeated it _con amore_. Was
I very pathetic and tragical. Amy?"
"I thought so then. It strikes me as ridiculous now, and I can't help
feeling sorry that I wasted so much pity on a man who--"
"Loves you with all his heart and soul. Did you cry and grieve over
me, dear little tender thing? and do you think now that I am a
heartless fellow, bent only on amusing myself at the expense of
others? It's not so; and you shall see how true and good and steady I
can be when I have any one to love and care for me. I've been alone so
long it's new and beautiful to be petted, confided in, and looked up
to by an angel like you."
He was in earnest now; she felt it, and her anger melted away like dew
before the sun.
"Poor boy! You will go home with us now, and let us take care of you
in quiet England. You'll play no more pranks, but go soberly to work
and do something that shall make me proud to be your cousin, won't
you?"
"If you'll change 'cousin' to 'wife' I'll be and do whatever you
please. Amy, when I was a poor, dying, Catholic foreigner you loved me
and would have married me in spite of everything. Now that I'm your
well, rich, Protestant cousin, who adores you as that Pole never
could, you turn cold and cruel. Is it because the romance is gone, or
because your love was only a girl's fancy, after all?"
"You deceived me and I can't forget it; but I'll try," was the soft
answer to his reproaches.
"Are you disappointed that I'm not a baron?"
"A little bit."
"Shall I be a count? They gave me a title in Poland, a barren honor,
but all they had to offer, poor souls, in return for a little blood.
Will you be Countess Zytomar and get laughed at for your pains, or
plain Mrs. Power, with a good old English name?"
"Neither, thank you; it's only a girlish fancy, which will soon be
forgotten. Does the baron love Helen?" asked Amy, abruptly.
"Desperately, and she?"
"I think he will be happy; she is not one to make confidantes, but I
know by her tenderness with me, her sadness lately, and something in
her way of brightening when he comes, that she thinks much of him and
loves Karl Hoffman. How it will be with the baron I cannot say."
"No fear of him; he wins his way everywhere. I wish I were as
fortunate;" and the gay young gentleman heaved an artful sigh and
coughed the cough that always brought such pity to the girl's soft
eyes.
She glanced at him as he leaned pensively on the low wall, looking
down into the lake, with the level rays of sunshine on his comely face
and figure. Something softer than pity stole into her eye, as she
said, anxiously,--
"You are not really ill, Sidney?"
"I have been, and still need care, else I may have a relapse," was the
reply of this treacherous youth, whose constitution was as sound as a
bell.
Amy clasped her hands, as if in a transport of gratitude, exclaiming,
fervently,--
"What a relief it is to know that you are not doomed to--"
She paused with a shiver, as if the word were too hard to utter, and
Sidney turned to her with a beaming face, which changed to one of
mingled pain and anger, as she added, with a wicked glance,--
"Wear spectacles."
"Amy, you've got no heart!" he cried, in a tone that banished her last
doubt of his love and made her whisper tenderly, as she clung to his
arm,--
"No, dear; I've given it all to you."
Punctual to the minute, Major Erskine marched into the _salon_, with
Mrs. Cumberland on his arm, exclaiming, as he eyed the four young
people together again,--
"Now, ladies, is it to be 'Paradise Lost' or 'Regained' for the
prisoners at the bar?"
At this point the astonished gentleman found himself taken possession
of by four excited individuals, for the girls embraced and kissed him,
the young men wrung his hand and thanked him, and all seemed bent
on assuring him that they were intensely happy, grateful and
affectionate.
From this assault he emerged flushed and breathless, but beaming with
satisfaction, and saying paternally,--
"Bless you, my children, bless you. I hoped and worked for this, and
to prove how well I practise what I preach, let me present to you--my
wife."
As he drew forward the plump widow with a face full of smiles
and tears, a second rush was made, and congratulations, salutes,
exclamations and embraces were indulged in to every one's
satisfaction.
As the excitement subsided the major said, simply,--
"We were married yesterday at Montreaux. Let me hope that you will
prove as faithful as I have been, as happy as I am, as blest as I
shall be. I loved this lady in my youth, have waited many years, and
am rewarded at last, for love never comes too late."
The falter in his cheery voice, the dimness of his eyes, the smile on
his lips, and the gesture with which he returned the pressure of the
hand upon his arm, told the little romance of the good major's life
more eloquently than pages of fine writing, and touched the hearts of
those who loved him.
"I have been faithful for eleven years. Give me my reward soon, won't
you, dear?" whispered Sidney.
"Don't marry me to-morrow, and if mamma is willing I'll think about it
by and by," answered Amy.
"It is beautiful! let us go and do likewise," said Sigismund to his
betrothed.
But Helen, anxious to turn the thoughts of all from emotions too deep
for words, drew from her pocket a small pearl-colored object, which
she gave to Amy with mock solemnity, as she said, turning to lay her
hand again in her lover's,--
"Amy, our search is over. _You_ may keep the gloves; _I_ have the
baron."
MY RED CAP
"He who serves well need not fear to ask his wages."
I
It was under a blue cap that I first saw the honest face of Joe
Collins. In the third year of the late war a Maine regiment was
passing through Boston, on its way to Washington. The Common was all
alive with troops and the spectators who clustered round them to say
God-speed, as the brave fellows marched away to meet danger and death
for our sakes.
Every one was eager to do something; and, as the men stood at ease,
the people mingled freely with them, offering gifts, hearty grips of
the hand, and hopeful prophecies of victory in the end. Irresistibly
attracted, my boy Tom and I drew near, and soon, becoming excited by
the scene, ravaged the fruit-stands in our neighborhood for tokens of
our regard, mingling candy and congratulations, peanuts and prayers,
apples and applause, in one enthusiastic jumble.
While Tom was off on his third raid, my attention was attracted by
a man who stood a little apart, looking as if his thoughts were far
away. All the men were fine, stalwart fellows, as Maine men usually
are; but this one over-topped his comrades, standing straight and
tall as a Norway pine, with a face full of the mingled shrewdness,
sobriety, and self-possession of the typical New Englander. I liked
the look of him; and, seeing that he seemed solitary, even in a crowd,
I offered him my last apple with a word of interest. The keen blue
eyes met mine gratefully, and the apple began to vanish in vigorous
bites as we talked; for no one thought of ceremony at such a time.
"Where are you from?"
"Woolidge, ma'am."
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