"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 _fête_
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."