"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.