Part 13

“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, as she glanced 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,” murmured 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.