CHAPTER XV_Under the Big Dipper

Breakfast that morning was, indeed, a serious business. Everybody

was ravenously hungry. They knew that it would be some hours before

they could partake of the next meal. Even the Princess and Helène did

justice to the food which their host had provided with true rustic

generosity. Papiu and Mihai, whom Morton had paid according to his

promise, were talking over their riches with their relatives. They had

also been presented with the rifles and equipment used on the journey.

They were discussing Morton in awed tones, as if he were some being of

a superior world. And Toni, himself, had occasion to agree with them,

for both he and his family had likewise been very liberally dealt with.

The party that gathered around the carriage in which the two

gently-bred ladies were seated, waiting for the signal to start was,

therefore, a happy if a noisily hilarious one. Chatterings as of

magpies and greetings in Roumelian and German came from all sides.

Rossika especially was everywhere in evidence; for had not the

Gospodinas worn her clothes? She ran about smiling and nodding and

advising with heightened color and heavy tread, as if the very lives

of the ladies depended on her final ministrations. At last Papiu, his

face all wreathed in smiles, ascended the driver’s seat, and amid loud

exclamations of thanks and adieus he cracked his whip and the carriage

rolled away, followed by Morton and Donald in a low dray.

The drive to the railway station was a pleasant one, though a longer

route was taken at Morton’s orders, to avoid a possible meeting with

soldiers from the border. During the slow drive, it occurred to both

the Princess and Helène that their old friend the canvas-covered wagon

had disappeared. They wondered what had become of it. Helène questioned

Papiu.

The wagon? Oh, yes--the wagon had been destroyed. Gospodar Morton--what

a leader of great wisdom he was!--Gospodar Morton had sent Mihai away

in it to deceive the soldiers who had been following them. He was to

send the wagon over a ravine after he had set the horses free to roam

in the woods.

Had they really been followed by soldiers? Oh, yes! Papiu, by this

time, had quite forgotten that he had been ordered to say nothing to

the ladies about the matter. Yes, Mihai had seen them--“duke drag”

(devil take them). One of the six fellows had escaped their rifles, for

he had evidently brought assistance, and the whole crew had been after

them. But the wagon’s tracks to the ravine had done the trick. Ha! ha!

ha! That Gospodar Morton was some leader!

Helène and the Princess said not a word. This then was the explanation

for Morton’s strange behavior at the time. Then there had been fighting

and killing! What an escape!

When they alighted at the railway station both the girls were very

quiet; but Morton was too busily occupied to notice the change. He

monopolized the little telegraph office for so long a time that the

operator in charge of the place thought the foreigner must be some

government official or one of those newspaper correspondents who were

everywhere. By the time the train for Hermanstadt drew in Morton had

sent off all his messages. Within the hour they were in Hermanstadt,

the first real town they had seen since leaving Padina, a city of early

Saxon character and enterprise.

As the train for Vienna was not due for two hours, Morton drove the

girls in a droshky and left them in the rehabilitating hands of the

head of the best outfitting establishment the town possessed. He then

took the occasion to see to his own person, and make some purchases

which he knew would be welcomed by the ladies on the long journey

before them. When he met them again at the station they hardly knew

each other. What a difference clothes make!

Morton had been careful to secure a private compartment for the ladies

so that they might obtain the rest of which they were in real need;

and when he had seen them comfortably placed in their seats, he joined

Donald in an adjoining compartment of the same car.

The long ride was uneventful, except for the usual bustle at the

stopping places and the interest which this aroused. It was at one of

these that the Princess procured a newspaper. She was eager to learn

of what had happened since she had left Padina, and anxiously scanned

the columns for news of her country. Suddenly, she uttered a loud

exclamation of distress, and Helène, startled, saw her lean back and

point to the sheet lying spread in her lap.

“Read this, Helène,” she cried, pointing to the headline: “News from

Roumelia.” Helène took the paper and read:

“From Sophia, under date October --, we received the following

communication, which evidently escaped the strict censorship. The

_Divane_ met on Saturday, October --, and was attended by a majority

of the members. The meeting, presided over by Demeter Sturdza, was

one of intense excitement throughout. M. Flava, after making an

impassioned address, moved a resolution demanding the expulsion of

all the remaining officials of the old régime, unless they took the

oath of the new constitution. It asked that the members of the royal

family be placed under arrest and tried under the laws as administered

by the Triumvirate. The resolution also called for plenary authority

for himself and his two colleagues, MM. Balescu and Calorasi. It was

carried by virtually the unanimous vote of the assembly, and President

Sturdza was compelled to sign the warrants presented. Great excitement

still prevails in the capital.

“Reports from Padina, so far unconfirmed, state that the Princess

Marie-Louise has disappeared with the Comtesse Rondell, her

lady-in-waiting. It is said that the disappearance of the two ladies

was connected with the arrival of a party of some forty foreigners, who

came to Padina ostensibly on a prospecting visit to oil-lands and for

the purchase of horses. These people bought a number of blood animals

and disbursed fabulous sums of money in other directions. The strangers

had left Padina on the very Sunday on which the absence of the Princess

was discovered. The borders are being closely guarded, and no one is

permitted to leave the country without a passport from the Committee of

Safety.

“A reward has been offered for the capture of the Princess, dead or

alive. Colonel A----, commanding at Padina, has been arrested, and the

Mayor and Chief of Police of the town have been suspended. They are

suspected of being implicated in the plot for the abduction of the

ladies.

“The Bulgarian government has ordered the mobilization of the Third

and Fifth Divisions of the army. The Roumelian garrison along all the

borders has been strengthened. All officers suspected of royalist

tendencies have been imprisoned. The country is again under martial

law.”

Helène turned deathly pale as she came to the last words. She looked at

the Princess and found her leaning against the window her head bowed

on her arms.

“Oh, my darling,” she cried sobbingly, embracing her friend, “what

would have become of you had you remained in Padina? What has become of

all our friends?”

“God alone knows,” murmured the Princess. “We should have shared their

fates if Mr. Morton had not come to us when he did. I cannot forgive

myself.”

They comforted each other and found relief in tears. But they were

free--free--free--and their hearts filled with gratitude for the kind

fate that had sent Morton to them.

“We owe that to your father, the Count,” said the Princess; “he had the

foresight to know and the courage to act. Without him and Mr. Morton we

should certainly have perished.”

They were glad they were alone, and when the attendant came to tell

them that their sleeping berths were ready, they lay down with thankful

prayers in their hearts and on their lips. God had been good to

them--the poor, helpless, defenseless girls!

The early forenoon of the succeeding day saw the train glide slowly

into the brightly lit and imposing terminal at Vienna. It had scarcely

come to a stop when Morton appeared at the door of the compartment with

a tall and distinguished gentleman, who was introduced as Mr. Tyler,

the American Minister to Germany. He told the ladies that Mr. Tyler

would see them to their hotel and look after them. He himself had much

to do and with very little time in which to do it. He was leaving for

England that very afternoon. He promised to call on them later at the

hotel.

With a courtesy that is now, alas, rarer than it once was, Mr. Tyler

placed himself at the entire disposal of the Princess and Helène. They

soon realized that there were gentlemen in America as well as in

Europe. He drove with them to the “Bristol,” where they were already

expected. Morton had telegraphed for rooms from Hermanstadt. Here

maids were assigned to them, and their every requirement attended to,

while Mr. Tyler waited for them in the foyer. He had been requested

by Morton to take them around the shops and see that they were amply

supplied with everything they might need, so that when they came down

to him he was ready for them. He acquitted himself admirably, and the

girls enjoyed their shopping to the full, as only girls can. On their

return to the hotel, they found a telegram from Brindisi, which had

been opened and sent on by Morton, instructing them to carry out the

original program laid out for them, and to travel by quickest route to

Weimar, where they were expected, and where they would be well taken

care of. Helène breathed a sigh of great relief. The telegram must

be from her father. Then he was alive, and, therefore, well. God be

thanked!

When Morton called to make his adieux, he was an altogether changed

man. The Princess, who saw him first, scarcely recognized in the

elegantly dressed and formally polite gentleman before her, the rough

leader of the men of Padina. Her first impulse was to return his

formality with a like show of dignity; but her heart was too full.

Approaching him with outstretched hand, she said in a voice drowned

with emotion:

“I cannot thank you, Mr. Morton, for all that you have done. I may

never forget it. But you will, I know, understand my feelings. I am

deeply, heartfully grateful.”

Morton smiled and bowed: “Your Highness, you over-estimate my poor

services. I have been honored in your trust. I shall carry with me to

my own country the beautiful memory of a noble lady.”

She extended her hand to him, and as he bowed over it and kissed it

softly, she said:

“I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing you at Weimar, Mr. Morton. I

shall be proud to make you known to my people.”

Morton thanked her and bowed himself out. He was glad that parting was

over when he was again in the little salon. It was the other parting

which he now awaited that filled him with emotion and fear. He walked

to and fro with quick, nervous steps, thinking of what he should say

when he saw her. He wished it were over so that he might get away--the

sooner he went the sooner he could come back. As he had begun, so he

would finish. He had engaged himself in a dangerous enterprise for

Helène’s sake, moved to it by a mere face in a picture; but now that he

had seen and come to know her very self, his whole being clamored for

her love. Nothing should come between her and him, once he was assured

of his father’s health. If only he could wait until he had fulfilled

his duties to his dear ones at home! Ah, then, he would come back on

wings and claim her, if--if--she would have it so. God grant that he

had found favor in her eyes!

He was interrupted in his impassioned thinking by the opening of the

door. It was the maid who had come to tell him that the Comtesse

Rondell would be pleased to see him. With considerable trepidation and

many misgivings he entered the apartment. The scent of flowers were

wafted sweetly to his nostrils--he recognized it as the scent of the

flowers he had sent her a little while ago, and his heart beat again.

He saw them in a tall vase on a table near the window, and the sight

of them deepened the turmoil within him. It was as if he had met his

self-confessed self.

The soft frou-frou of silken skirts on carpet rustled and Helène stood

before him in all the glory of her heightened beauty. She was dressed

very simply in silver gray, but the rose color in her cheeks gave the

contrast and drew his charmed gaze to the shining eyes that looked at

him as if they were the windows of her noble spirit.

Morton stood gazing at the vision, spellbound. He drank in the

sweetness and the light of it as if these were the one food he craved.

With a bewitching smile she moved towards him conveying a pretty

greeting with the gesture of her outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mr.

Morton, for the lovely flowers. You are too kind. But how changed you

are! Yesterday, you were the knight of old in armor, now you look like

a gallant of the Ringstrasse.”

The girl was excited and felt an unaccountable shyness before him.

She was trying to hide her embarrassment with an attempt at badinage.

Morton sensed her feelings and tried to help her by smiling, but he

could find no words. Instinctively she saw what was the matter with

him, and with womanly quickness she changed the subject.

“Have you heard from papa?”

The important question brought Morton to himself again. He seized it

gratefully. “Only the message I transmitted to you advising your early

departure for Weimar--nothing more. I have arranged that Mr. Tyler

accompany you to Weimar.”

“Ah, yes--I forgot; you are leaving us.” The rose in her cheeks had

faded slowly and left the color of the lily behind, imparting a new

beauty to the sweetness of the childlike face. Her long dark lashes had

drooped and were quivering on the satin of her skin. He dared not look

longer or he would forget himself. And time was pressing. He must be

gone; but he must say just one word more before he left her.

“Comtesse, I am come to remind you of your promise given me at our last

conversation together. You will not forget, will you, to call on me if

you need help? I want to remain your friend, if you will permit me.

This is my card; it will tell you where you can reach me at any time.

Send me word and I will come. And here also is a package from your

father. It contains such funds as you will need until Count Rondell

joins you at Weimar.”

Helène took the card and package and laid them listlessly on the table

on which stood the vase of flowers. An unknown fear had suddenly taken

possession of her; she experienced a dread of dangers yet to come, and

knew not how to account for it. Her father--what of him? Would she

ever see him again? And this gentleman--would she ever meet him again?

Morton’s voice came to her as if from a long way off.

“Dear lady, I have nothing more to say, except that I must tell you

that my meeting you has been a great pleasure to me. I am leaving to

return to my own people whom I have not seen in two years, and who are

anxiously waiting for me. But I leave with the determination fixed to

come back. May I hope--that you will be glad to see me when----”

He hesitated, not daring to say more. Helène had kept her eyes lowered,

and at the pause she raised them to his face. What she saw there

caused her to step back involuntarily and to speak quickly in low but

impressive tones:

“Mr. Morton, I shall pray that you find your dear ones at home all

well. When next you come to Europe you will find no heartier welcome

than we shall extend to you at Weimar--papa, the Princess and myself.”

Then looking him bravely full in the face, she added: “And I promise

you that if ever I am in need of a friend, I shall turn to you.”

Morton drew nearer to her, breathing in the faint odor of roses which

exhaled from her. He took the hand she had unconsciously stretched

towards him, and bending over it touched it softly with his cold lips.

“Thank you. Good-bye, dear lady, till we meet again.”

“Au revoir, Mr. Morton.”

She allowed her hand to remain in his, and with the other drew a little

rosebud from among its sisters on her breast and offered it to him.

“This,” she said, smiling saucily, “is for our Bayard--_le preux

chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_.”

Morton took the flower reverently--“I shall keep it in memory of the

honor you have conferred on me,” he said. “Au revoir, Comtesse--May God

bless you and guard you.”

He bowed once more and kissed her hand again. Then letting it gently

slip from his hold he turned to the door.

“_Auf wiedersehen_, Mr. Morton--and my deepest gratitude goes with you.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then quickly walked out of the room.

As he descended the stairs sweet strains of music reached him from

the band playing in the dining-room. They came to him as a fitting

accompaniment to her parting words, lingering in his memory. When Mr.

Tyler met his friend in the foyer he saw a face transfigured in a new

light and wearing a smile of ineffable happiness.

Tyler was a man of the world and drew his own conclusions. Ah--the old,

old story! Well, he thought, good luck to you, my boy; but aloud he

remarked to Morton that they had but very little time in which to catch

the Ostend Express.

END OF BOOK ONE

BOOK II

CHAPTER XVI

The express for Ostend was punctual to the minute, and John ensconced

himself in the luxurious seat of his compartment, glad to be alone with

his thoughts, alone for the first time in many weeks. As he took a

mental survey of what had happened in the past three weeks, it seemed

to him as if he had lately lost his identity. Instead of John Randolph

Morton, he had been some soldier of fortune. It was indeed time he

came back to himself, for the latest advice from home had been very

disquieting. His father had been badly shaken in an elevator accident

and, although no bones were broken, yet coming on a previous illness,

his condition might, any day, be serious.

He blamed himself for his absence, thinking that the accident, perhaps,

might not have occurred had he gone with his father on that trip to the

western mines. Then he remembered that it would have been impossible

for him to get to New York from Brindisi until three days after the

accident, and felt relieved.

Brindisi? Ah, yes-- Where was the Count? He was afraid the old man was

no better or he would have sent word. “I shall not see you again, my

son,” he had said on parting. Were the words to be prophetic? If he

should die, what would become of Helène? Who would take care of her?

Who will take care of her? He repeated the question so often that he

suddenly found the clicking of the train’s wheels over the rail-joints

keeping time to them. Who will take care of her? Who will take care of

her? It was as if they were reminding him of the greater duty he had

left unfulfilled--the duty he owed to his own heart’s promptings.

Why had he not taken her with him? She would have been so tenderly

cared for by his mother and by sister Ruth. And he had left her--with

no friends to protect her, with no one near to whom she could turn in

her loneliness or distress!

And what if her father died? Who would tell her the sad news? How would

she be able to bear up should she hear of it in the cold words of a

telegram? Thank heaven, he had Tyler to help him. He would provide for

that, at any rate.

Should he write to her from London and offer her his heart and hand? He

began thinking of the possible outcome of such an action on his part.

If he did write, was there not the danger that she might refuse him

without her father’s consent? And suppose he heard in the meantime that

Count Rondell was dead, how could he dare to plead his own cause at a

time of such distress? Surely her heart and mind would be closed to

him, then! What a quandary he was in!

Thinking thus, he lost himself in a tangle of his own weaving. It

seemed as if he were beset by worry and anxiety from all sides. Look

which way he would, he found illness, trouble and portending disaster

there. Of what value to him his wealth and education in this present

predicament? He was up against it, as he put it to himself.

What had Tyler, his father’s old friend and experienced man of the

world, what had he said to him? “Never forget, my boy, that not one

of us can escape the rules of life as the world lays them down. The

very restraint of the conditions is salutary, aye, even for the freedom

of choice we occasionally must exercise. Our rights would cease to

be rights were it not at the price of the corresponding duties. If a

man thinks he can cheat life--evade the rules--he’ll find he is only

cheating himself.”

Duties? Ah, yes, Tyler was right. His duty must come first--and he owed

that to his father and to his anxious mother. If the Comtesse Helène

could not bear up before that test--why--he must lose her. He rose

excitedly and raised the window. The night air rushing in cooled his

hot head. He stood for some moments breathing in deep gulps of it as if

it were allaying a great thirst, staring stonily into the darkness.

By God, no! He would never lose her. The window closed with a crash

and he threw himself once more on the cushions. Never, for an instant,

would he doubt her. It was up to him--everything was up to him. He

must be a man--or he was not deserving of her. And she, oh, she was

worth the winning! Thus determined, he slept heavily and awoke the next

morning to the refreshing sounds of the Bavarian country life.

All journeys have an end and in time Morton arrived at the Hotel Cecil

in London. Here he found his mail awaiting him. A cable from home

confirmed the one he had received in Vienna. They were glad he was

soon to sail. His father’s condition remained unchanged. The telegram

from Brindisi from the doctor was a shock. It read: “Our friend died

on November twelfth, conscious to the last, of acute uremia and heart

failure. Body in vault. Property all sealed, your agent in possession.

Wire or write further instructions. Detailed letter mailed you Mont

Cenis mail, reach you seventeenth.”

Morton held the flimsy paper in his hand scarcely believing what he

had read. It had come at last. He expected it and yet it shocked him

deeply. Well, he must be up and doing quickly.

The wire from Donald told him that the ladies were leaving for

Weimar that day. Mr. Tyler was with them and everything had been

satisfactorily arranged; he had received no news from Brindisi.

He also opened a note from his friend Stillman which said that he would

call on him at nine that evening.

Morton looked at the clock; he had just forty minutes before Stillman

was due.

It was absolutely necessary that some person should convey the sad

tidings to the poor girl. Tyler was the man, of course; there was time

to wire him asking him to wait for a letter. He rang for a messenger

and sent off the following telegram: “Please wait at Weimar for my

letter mailed you via Oriental Express. What we anticipated has

happened. Rondell is dead. Say nothing to the Comtesse Helène until you

receive my letter.”

Morton was putting the finishing touches to a hasty toilet when his

friend Stillman was announced.

“Hello, Jack!”

“How do, Harry!”

The two exchanged cordial and prolonged handshakes.

“Well, upon my soul, Jack, old man, you’ve not changed nearly as much

as I expected. You look perfectly civilized. Where have you been and

why are you leaving us so quickly? We surely will have a couple of days

together, eh? How’s the governor and Mrs. Morton? What do you hear from

Ruth?”

“My dear Harry, you are asking for my biography. I came here from Egypt

and I must leave to-morrow for home because father has had a serious

accident in a mine elevator. Mother and Ruth report being well. Are

you satisfied, now? I suppose you are still on deck at the Embassy?

But you look fine--quite like a Britisher. Still the same old Harry,

though, eh?”

“The same, I guess. Same job, too,--a bit closer to the chief, perhaps,

and a bit of raise in the salary. But, say, I’m awful glad to see you.

Have you dined?”

“No, I was hoping you would be free so that we could go out together.

I wanted to see you about presenting some reports I have made to the

British Colonial Office. I haven’t much time, as I tell you, and,

perhaps, I may not be able to manage it this time. But you’ll come and

eat with me first. How will the Red Room below suit you? You see, I’m

not in evening clothes and I know you fellows of the Diplomatic Corps

are sticklers on that score. Will you take a chance with me?”

“Who wouldn’t with John R. Morton, my dear boy. You’re above clothes.

The ‘Red Room’ is all right; but why not come up to my club, the

Hoarders? They serve a bully good dinner there and you may meet some of

our fellows. I expect the Chief may drop in after ten and, I am sure,

he wouldn’t want to miss you while you’re in town. How does that strike

you?”

“It suits me down to the ground.”

“Then come right along, old man.”

As they were passing the clerk’s desk, Morton turned to his friend and

excusing himself for a moment, left with the clerk the address of the

club where he could be found in case a message came for him.

“Lady, eh, Jack?”

“No such luck. Speaking of ladies, Harry, how do you manage to escape

all the beautiful English girls--not to mention the beauties from our

own land? I should think they’d be glad to bag a Secretary of the

American Legation.”

“A prophet, my boy, is not without honor save in his own country. Our

girls take no stock in Secretaries of the Legation; and as for the

English girls they’ve enough Secretaries to choose from of their own.

We’re all of us only cogs in a big wheel.”

They stepped out of the hansom and entered the splendid home of the

Hoarders. John enjoyed the novelty of the place--its refined atmosphere

appealed to him. The dinner was excellent and excellently served. It

was his first real taste of civilization in two years. The two friends

chatted and gossiped over old times and new. John was treated to a good

deal of politics and not a few instances of the Chief’s peculiarities.

Evidently, it was not all beer and skittles at the Legation. He was not

much interested really, though he gave Stillman the politest attention

and sympathy. But he could not put out of his mind the many matters

which just then were weighing heavily on him. The very brilliancy of

the room with its coruscating crystals and heavy crimson and gold

draperies served but to accentuate the difference between his own

present situation and that of the dear girl he had left alone and

friendless. He would write that letter to Tyler immediately he got back

to the hotel.

They were about to retire to the lounging room when a servant came up

to Stillman and handed him a note on a salver. Stillman read it with a

puzzled expression on his face.

“I say, Jack, what does this mean? There are several newspaper fellows

in the hall who want to interview you. They learned at the hotel

that you were here and have come in a body? I didn’t know you were a

celebrity of that kind. What’s the game?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose I’d better see them and find

out. Can they come up to the reading-room?”

Stillman turned to the waiting servant and told him to bring the

gentlemen into the reading-room--the small one, he added.

When they entered the room they found awaiting them four gentlemen

of various ages who introduced themselves as representatives of

the _Associated Press_, the _Times_, the _New York Herald_ and the

_Sphere_, respectively. Their spokesman, a Mr. Worcester, begged

permission to explain their seeming intrusion. Morton nodded his

willingness to listen.

“Mr. Morton,” he began briskly, “we have been advised of the arrival

in Vienna of Her Royal Highness Princess Marie-Louise of Roumelia and

her Lady-in-Waiting, the Comtesse Helène Rondell. We have been given to

understand that you escorted the ladies over the border, or, in other

words, that you rescued them from the castle in which they had been

confined. Are we correct in our information?”

John was both astonished and chagrined. Who on earth had spread the

news? It never occurred to him that any publicity would follow his

adventure. Confound these newspaper fellows! However, he knew the class

well from past experience and also that it would be better if he told

them the facts himself rather than leave them to their imaginations.

Assuming a friendly and frank manner, he smiled and said:

“Why, gentlemen, I shall be very glad to tell you all I know. Pray, be

seated. Harry, will you be good enough to order some drinks and cigars

for the gentlemen?”

He was gaining time and doing some quick and hard thinking as well.

“Now, Mr. Worcester, go ahead with your questions so that I may know

what you want me to tell you.”

“Would it not be better, Mr. Morton, if you told us the story in your

own way?” Evidently, Mr. Worcester was no tyro at the game. “We shall

ask questions and, perhaps, more than you care to answer, after we have

had your story?”

The waiter came in with the refreshments and by the time glasses were

filled and cigars lit, John was ready for them.

“There is not much to tell,” he remarked in a tone of admirably

assumed regret. “So, I think, you’d get more out of me if you put your

questions first.”

“As you wish, Mr. Morton. Reuter’s report the arrival of the two ladies

at the Bristol in Vienna. They came to the city accompanied by you and

your man. The report says further that they were left in charge of Mr.

Gordon S. Tyler, the American Minister to Germany. Mr. Tyler denies any

knowledge as to how the ladies got out of Roumelia, nor does he give

any other information except that he is escorting them to their friends

in Germany. He refused permission to have the ladies interviewed. We

had heard, of course, all kinds of rumors from Sophia and Belgrade, but

nothing in which we could place any confidence. The papers have been

full of the escape during the past few days, but gave no details. That

is what we are here for now.”

John had made up his mind. He would tell the story or some simple,

plausible tale that would satisfy the papers so that they would leave

the rest alone.

“Well, gentlemen, if you will have it, here it is--all I know. My

friend, Count Rondell, shortly after I arrived in Italy on my return

from Egypt, asked me to assist him in getting his daughter to him. He

gave me full instructions, provided me with the necessary guides and

equipment and led me to a place close to the Roumelian border where we

remained in hiding. When all was ready, one stormy night, we entered

a small town,--you will pardon me if I do not give its name--and took

the ladies away in a closed carriage. The ladies had been prepared for

our arrival, so that there was little or no delay. We managed to elude

the officials and guards and, after crossing the border, arrived at a

railway station where we took the train for Vienna. The rest you seem

to know.”

“Were you acquainted with the ladies before you undertook to assist

Count Rondell?”

“Not at all. I am sure my fame never reached the Princess’s ears. I had

neither time nor opportunity to see much of them on the journey and I

question if they know even my name. To them I was simply the man in

charge of the expedition.”

John sipped his brandy and soda and puffed calmly at his cigar as he

looked his interlocutor steadily in his face.

“Of course,” he added, smiling, “I am happy and proud to have

succeeded. It was certainly exciting driving over those hills. But

Count Rondell had seen to everything and there wasn’t a hitch. Will you

have another glass, gentlemen?”

“May I inquire what you are going to do now?”

“Oh, I am sailing for home on the _Umbria_ from Liverpool on Saturday

morning. I haven’t seen my people for two years. What I shall do when I

get there is hard to say.”

“May I be permitted to ask a question?” The voice came from a young,

red-haired dapper little fellow with an upturned nose on which were

placed thick eye-glasses.

“Certainly, Mr. Witherspoon.”

“You must have driven at a break-neck speed. Were the ladies

frightened?”

John smiled at the inanity of the question. “I was hardly in a position

to know. As you say, we rode fast and I sat with the driver, so there

was not much opportunity for conversation. The only occasion for talk

was when we took the train for Vienna.”

“How did the Princess appear to you, Mr. Morton?” Mr. Witherspoon was

insistent.

“The Princess appears to be a very noble and serious-minded young

woman. Perhaps I am wrong in using the word woman--she looked so young.”

“The Almanach de Gotha gives her age as nineteen.”

“Well, the Almanach de Gotha ought to know--the poor thing does not

look it.”

“Were the ladies surprised to find that their rescuer was no other than

the son of the richest living American?”

John rose in all his dignity. The pup was getting unbearable with his

impertinent questions. But he kept himself well in restraint.

“I think, Mr. Witherspoon, you heard me say that the ladies knew

nothing about me. There was no occasion when it was at all necessary

for them to know who or what I was. As I have already said, they knew

me only as Count Rondell’s deputy--they obeyed his instructions as I

did. I think, gentlemen, that will be all.”

The reporters rose quickly and withdrew as quickly.

It was late when Morton got back to his hotel and he was very tired. He

would write his letter to Tyler to-morrow, and by that time he would

most likely hear from the Brindisi doctor, and then he would know

better what to say.

Early next morning he received a telegram from Tyler, who expressed

his willingness to remain over in Weimar and act on John’s letter

when it should reach him. Somewhat later in the day the French mail

brought him the anxiously expected letter from Brindisi. It was more

of a physician’s report than a letter, and was written in a dry,

professional style. Count Rondell had rallied a little two days after

landing. He constantly inquired for letters which he was expecting.

On the fourth day, he received a letter which made him very happy.

He was much better that day. Then he began to fail again. His heart

became so weak that it was deemed advisable to call in a specialist

from Rome. This was done, but he proved of no help. For two days

the Count remained in a comatose condition. On Tuesday morning, he

rallied somewhat. When the message from Hermanstadt arrived he had it

read to him. The news seemed to make him very happy and he murmured

words of prayer. He dozed off in the afternoon, awoke in the evening

and dictated a few sentences which the nurse wrote down. Soon after

he sank slowly and expired towards midnight. The report went on to

say that Mr. Morton’s agent was in possession of all the papers and

personal property of the deceased gentleman as well as such letters

he had written or dictated while in Brindisi. Mr. Morton’s agent had

discharged liberally all the costs, for which the writer begged to

thank him herewith.

Another letter, one from Morton’s agent, confirmed the doctor’s report.

He now had all the information for which he had been waiting. Sitting

down immediately, he wrote his letter to Tyler at Weimar:

“MY DEAR MR. TYLER:

“I have your wire advising that you will await in Weimar the arrival

of this letter. Thank you for this most heartily.

“I enclose herewith letter of Dr. ---- of Brindisi which gives the

details of Count Rondell’s death. I have wired my agents in Rome

to forward promptly all letters and papers left by Count R. to you

and to hold other personal property at the order of yourself or the

Countess.

“As, perhaps, you are aware, my dear Mr. Tyler, my interest in

Comtesse Helène is very deep and sincere. I want you to be the person

to tell her of her sad loss. You will know how to soften the blow.

She will need all her courage and the help of a good friend in this

hour of her sorrow.

“I would give a great deal were it possible for me to be there to

protect and comfort her; but my duty calls me home. I have received

another cable confirming the earlier one and I fear I must be

prepared for the worst.

“Please advise the Comtesse in all things; you will know best what

and how. It would be best if the money left by her father were to be

deposited in an ordinary checking account to her order. The Comtesse

is a minor and you must avoid a guardianship. She is a foreign

subject and it would lead to complications and red tape. She will do

what you suggest, I am confident. Don’t allow her to act on her own

initiative, and urge her to keep her affairs to herself. The German

laws are tedious--but you know all about that!

“I shall be back in Europe right after New Year, I think, and

will then take occasion to thank you in person for your splendid

friendship. Father will, I hope, perhaps be also able to thank you

for having done this for his son.

“Once more assuring you of my deepest appreciation and hoping to see

you soon, I am,

“Yours very sincerely,

“MORTON.”

The letter written, John felt greatly relieved. But he had other tasks

before him--one, the most difficult of all--his letter to Helène

herself. She had never, for one moment, been out of his thoughts since

he left her in Vienna. He dared not put it off any longer, especially

now when she would need the heartfelt sympathy of a dear friend.

“MY DEAR COMTESSE RONDELL:

“My friend, Mr. Tyler, whom I trust you will permit to be your friend

also, has, no doubt, told you of your loss and of the calm and happy

last hours of your beloved father.

“He will also have let you know that my dispatch telling your father

that you were well and safe in Transylvania had reached him when

perfectly conscious. His mind had been freed from worry about your

welfare. He died with a smile upon his lips, whispering a blessing.

“In this sad hour of your bereavement, I, a friend of but recent

date, should perhaps not presume to dwell upon it. But I remember

that I was probably the last man to whom your father spoke freely;

and it is the honor he did me by his confidence that moves me to

write to you now.

“I dared not tell you, but we both knew, even before our arrival in

Italy, that the days remaining to him were few, and that he despaired

of seeing you again. He made me promise to look after you, his most

beloved in this world. He was afraid you would be left friendless.

You know now, perhaps, that I am happy and proud to have this

privilege.

“My own dear father is in serious condition and I fear that before

long, I, too, shall lose a parent. The information I have received

in another cable makes it imperative for me to sail to-morrow

for America. But for this duty which I owe to my mother and

father--nothing would have prevented me from returning to Weimar and

telling you the sad tidings myself. Mr. Tyler, for whom I beg your

full confidence, is a most honorable and experienced gentleman. His

official position puts him where he may well be able to lighten the

terrible burden which has now fallen upon your young life.

“It may be presumptuous on my part, but I would remind you again of

our last interview in Vienna. I beg of you not to take any important

step in your life until I can present myself once more before you.

“May God bless you, and soften the heavy blow that has come to you

now. May He in His great goodness and wisdom guide your thoughts and

give you the strength you need.

“Rest assured, dear lady, that I shall be ever ready to devote

myself, if you and the kind fates permit, to your happiness. With my

highest regard and my most fervent hope that you will still permit me

to be your sincere friend and servant, I am, in deepest sympathy and

devotion,

“Yours most sincerely,

“JOHN RANDOLPH MORTON.”

He enclosed this letter in one he had written to Don, because he wished

Helène to read it after Tyler had seen her. He then drove to the

Post-office and despatched the letters himself.

The rest of the afternoon he spent in making various calls on officials

and agents, and by midnight he was on the train rushing to Liverpool

where early the next morning he boarded the steamer which was to carry

him home--home at last!

CHAPTER XVII

The following Sunday Morton, standing on the upper deck of the

good ship _Umbria_, saw in the distance the serrated outline of

his country’s real metropolis. Up the bay, past the gaunt and gray

structures looming above the sands of Coney Island, through the leaden

murk and mist of the late autumn day, his eyes roved and lingered,

glorying inwardly at the pride and pomp of New York. He took in deep

draughts of the air. It was good to be back again, and his heart lifted.

He was met at the pier by a representative from the office who told him

that his father’s condition was still unchanged. He had received word

to tell Mr. Morton that he was to take the train for Cleveland without

delay.

At daybreak, the following morning, he was once again in Cleveland, the

city of his childhood, the place of his home. The coachman, an ancient

servitor of the Mortons, greeted him with welcoming smiles and glad

words. Even the horses knew him and neighed as he stroked their manes.

The drive through the deserted streets, so familiar to him, brought

back to his mind so many memories that he could scarce see the houses

for the moisture in his eyes. The tinkling of the silver harness, the

hoof-beats of the spirited animals were music to his ears. Ah, at last,

there was the tall iron gate that led to home! With a bound he was

through it and running swiftly up the pebbled approach he almost fell

into the waiting, outstretched arms of his mother and sister.

“Home at last, John,” cried the mother, kissing and hugging him while

Ruth had her hands on his arms.

“Yes, dear mother, home at last. But how is father?”

Bravely restraining her tears she told him:

“Father is very weak, but cheerful. The doctors are non-committal, but

won’t you go up to him, dear? He was sleeping at little while ago, but

I think he’s awake now. And, ah, he does so want to see you.”

Then followed more embracing. The handsome mother held her boy at arm’s

length, bathing him with the lovelight that streamed from her eyes.

“Oh, but you’re so altered--so brown and big--and--and--just the same

dear boy.” Her voice broke in sobs.

“Of course, I’m just the same, dear mother. Would you have me

different? And here’s our little Ruthie. Little? Why bless me, Ruthie,

but you’ve grown to be quite a lady! Yes, and a mighty good-looking one

at that! I suppose I shall have to behave myself now, eh?” He kissed

her affectionately, his arms about her shoulders.

“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad you’re home again. You’ll stay with us now,

always, won’t you? We did miss you awfully. You do look nice, John. I

like your mustache, but you’ve quite a serious look in your eyes. He

looks just like you, mamma, really he does, although not so handsome,

of course. But you’ll pass in a crowd.”

John laughed and gave her another hug.

“All right, old girl, I don’t mind; so long as I look like mother I

guess I’ll do.”

The nurse preceded him up the stairs to the bedroom. Propped up in bed

lay a thin, gray-haired man, looking pale and wan, but with eyes bright

and with a look in them anticipatory of pleasure.

“Father, dear father,” John whispered brokenly as he bent lovingly over

the smiling and happy face.

“Ah, dear boy, welcome home. Stand back, John, and let me get a good

look at you. My, but you do look fit! I am glad to see you again, my

lad, though I’m sorry you find me in this scrape.” The sick man’s eyes

twinkled and a humorous smile bent the pale lips. “Well, well, so you

are ready to settle down with the old folks, eh? No more exploring and

adventure? By George, you’re some man, John, some man. You make me

want to ask her name. Never mind, lad, you needn’t tell me right now.

My--but it’s good to have you home again.”

“Dear dad, I am so glad to be home again. You are looking fine and not

a bit changed. Get well again, dad, because I want you to teach me how

to be of use to you. I want you to be proud of me.”

“Proud of you, John? Why, I always have been and still am proud of you.

There isn’t a finer fellow in Ohio. You’ll make good; I’m dead sure of

that. All right, nurse, I’ll be good. John, I’m afraid we’ll have to

obey Miss Persing. She says that six in the morning is too early for

children of my age to be up. I’ve got to sleep for a couple of hours

longer. No, you go back to mother and Ruth. I guess they’re dying to

hear all you have to tell them. Hello, mother; good morning, my dear.”

Mrs. Morton and Ruth had that moment appeared in the doorway. His wife

went to the bedside and kissed her husband tenderly while Ruth stroked

his hand.

“What’s the orders, nurse?” Mr. Morton asked as he looked at her over

his wife’s shoulder.

“You would better be resting, Mr. Morton. The doctor will be here at

half past eight and he’ll scold me if he finds you feverish.”

“All right, Miss Persing, I’ll be good.”

The family withdrew leaving the old man, weak and pale but with a face

wreathed in happy smiles. His head sought the pillow gratefully and

soon he was sleeping like a child.

It was now that John heard the full details of the accident to his

father. He had been suffering all summer, diabetes the doctors had

said. When they came to New York from Newport, he was much improved

and felt himself well enough to go out to Utah to look over his pet

mine, the Calumet Minnie. It was there the accident occurred. Nobody

knew just how it happened. The elevator had been inspected only the

week before. In the cage with him were the manager, Carson, the

superintendent, two engineers and a foreman. At the hundred and fifty

foot level something went wrong--the safety clutch didn’t work--and

the cage dropped some eighty feet. Carson was killed, the foreman

also, and the rest badly hurt. His father’s weakened state before the

accident complicated things and the doctor considered the case serious.

Later in the seclusion of her own room, his mother broke down utterly

before him. She knew his father would never get better, she said, and

she feared the worst. John tried all in his power to comfort her, but

he succeeded only in bringing pathetic smiles to her face and hopeful

looks in her eyes as she looked at him. He understood what was passing

in her thoughts and swore inwardly that he would never fail her.

Then came the anxious days of hope and fear, when the elder Morton’s

strength failed to respond to the doctors’ treatment. To John these

days were inexpressibly distressful. Gloom settled on the old mansion

which had seen the happiest times for both parents and children. John

did all he could to brighten the home, and spent many hours with his

father in intimate talk of his ambitions and aims in life. It was in

these confidences that he learned to know his father and, in knowing

him, to honor and admire him.

Dan Morton prided himself on the great fortune he had made, because in

making it he had never wronged another and he had brought the treasures

of the earth to enrich his fellow-men’s lives. That was the secret

spring of his success and power; and he knew how to use that power

because he was most keenly aware of the responsibility which its use

entailed.

The younger son of a Connecticut banker, who had made considerable

money in his native state, Dan Morton, quite early in life, had become

impatient of the narrow New England environment. He decided to go

West. With the legacy left him by his father, he followed the then

drift towards the great undeveloped country beyond the Mississippi.

Mines, ranches and the building of railroads claimed his enthusiastic

attention. The astonishing development of the Middle West gave his

investments a solid foundation and furnished opportunities for

realizing greatly increased values. During the second half of the

decade following the Civil War, Dan Morton had become a power in the

financial world of America. Great sections of the Pacific Slope and the

country of the Oregon trail were largely opened up by the aid given by

him and his associates. It was in this way that he helped to promote

the country’s wonderful growth.

He had married a beautiful girl, the daughter of an old Southern family

and had settled in Cleveland where he built a fine mansion. In spite

of his increasing wealth, his tastes remained simple and his manners

unassuming. Neither he nor his wife took any active part in what is

known as “Society,” though they maintained a beautiful country house

overlooking the Hudson.

When his son was born, he was called after his grandfather, John

Morton. As the boy grew up he became his father’s pride and hope. Dan

Morton looked on him as the reincarnation of himself, the child who

would grow up to be a man to carry on the work he had begun. When the

young man was ready to enter college, he developed a rather unexpected

taste for study and research--most un-Morton like, as his mother would

say. His father decided not to discourage the youth, but hoped that in

time he would turn from these strange gods and worship the gods of his

fathers. Indeed, he even encouraged him, possibly because he realized

that opposition might but confirm him in his inclinations. But so wise

a man as was Dan Morton knew also that an earnest search for truth and

a true desire for knowledge are in themselves ennobling and must result

in useful work. That John should apparently be engaged in profitless

labor, never for a moment touched his almost religious conviction, that

his son would return to the Morton fold and hold the belief that life

meant working for a reward and that it was the reward that gave meaning

to life.

During the years John spent at the various colleges, he attended at

home and abroad, acquiring learning if not wisdom, his father kept on

piling up riches, and patiently waiting for the young man to exhaust

himself of his dreamy desires and to come back to earth, as he put it.

But he always spoke of him with great pride, and if anyone referred to

his son’s aimlessness, he would say: “John won’t play second fiddle to

anybody--not even to me. And when I’m ready to quit, John will take my

place--a better man than his old dad was.”

This was the man that John came to know as he had never known him

before during their quiet chats in the sick-room. It was to this man,

so practical in his every thought that it seemed as if there could not

possibly be a chord in his being that would vibrate to romance, it was

to this man that John unbosomed himself of his secret. He told him in

detail of all that had happened, descanted, as only a lover can, of the

beauty of the girl and wound up by saying: “I intend, dad, to make that

girl my wife--if--if she will have me.”

“My boy, I am proud of you,” said his father. “You showed yourself a

man. If she won’t have you, she’s no judge of what a man is--and the

future generations of Mortons won’t be the losers. But if she is all

you describe her to be, she knows a hawk from a hernshaw.”

John laughed at his father’s way of stating the case; but the words

made him very happy. As time passed and but scant and unsatisfying news

came from either Tyler or Don, he became very restless. He had received

one letter from Helène which he treasured; but it contained what he

took as merely a courteous acknowledgment of her gratitude. He took

several flying trips to New York at his father’s request, but always

returned distrait and unhappy. He wrote several heartfelt letters to

the Comtesse, but received no replies.

Christmas came and with it a severe winter. It was a quiet and subdued

Yule-tide for the Mortons. Old Dan Morton was failing fast. The shadow

of the coming tragedy had fallen on the house. Before the New Year had

arrived, the elder Morton lay dead in the stilled solemn room. The

man who had been such a power in the world had no longer any power.

Henceforth the forces of nature which he had conquered would deal with

him in their own silent, resistless and inevitable fashion.

John took his heartbroken mother and sister South, away from the

place where they had known joy and experienced sorrow. They recovered

somewhat their interest in life amid the richer scenes and more vivid

life of the sun-bathed lands. It was here that he spoke, for the first

time, to his mother of his feelings for a girl he had met in Europe.

She said very little, because she knew it would be of no use; and she

also knew that she could trust his taste. She saw that it was very near

to his heart, and urged him to go back. If, she said, he felt convinced

that the girl was, indeed, necessary to his happiness, he must lose no

time in winning her. He had not told her everything and declined to

give the girl’s name or station in life. She was good and beautiful,

he said, and he was sure his mother would welcome her and love her. In

that case, his mother urged, his first duty was to himself. He must go

at once.

It was not his mother’s words, however, but a cable from McCormick that

decided him. Donald had cabled that the Comtesse Helène had left the

Ducal Palace secretly five days ago leaving no trace behind. She had

been hunted for high and low and even detectives had been employed.

Would Mr. Morton cable further instructions.

John lost no time in instructing Don to continue the search and advised

him that he was sailing for Europe by the first boat. To his mother

he gave an envelope with Helène’s handwriting on it, at the same time

begging her, if a letter came from Europe for him addressed in the same

hand, to notify him by cable of its receipt.

While New York matrons who had their daughters’ welfares to think of

were busy planning a season’s siege of the bachelor millionaire’s

heart, the unconscious object of their thoughts was sailing away from

them--back to a land he longed to see because somewhere in it lived one

for whom his whole being yearned, and without whom life would not be

worth living for him.

CHAPTER XVIII

After her trying experiences in that drive from Roumelia, Helène

welcomed the harbor of refuge afforded her by the castle at Weimar.

A small and pretty suite of rooms had been assigned to her in the

older east wing, where her mistress, the Princess Marie-Louise, was

also provided for. Her attendance at the Court was to begin after she

had been presented to the Dowager Duchess Clementine. A maid had been

assigned to her, and in her new surroundings she forgot for a while her

troubles, though she could not overcome the waves of depression which

continually assailed her when she thought of her father.

The maid, Josephine, a pert, little Parisian person, proved to be an

adept at her business; which is to say, that, in addition to a capacity

for ministering to a lady’s toilet, she was a most valuable and

insistent gossip and a consummate flatterer. During her ministrations

she told Helène that she was prettier and had hair more beautiful than

any other lady of the Court. The hair, especially, seemed to possess

most remarkable qualities. By its quality, she judged the gracious

Comtesse to be a lady of fine mind and of a strong constitution; by

its lustre, that the lady’s heart was pure as gold; by its tendency

to waviness, that its owner would have a long life and be wealthy and

happy, and that her future husband would be great and powerful and love

her always.

Helène listened patiently with a smile. She knew the tribe and knew

also that it would be her comfort and peace of mind if she said

nothing but appeared interested. Besides, the girl was really shrewd

and very amusing. Without her chatter, life in the castle would have

been like that of a nunnery. For the atmosphere of the place was heavy

with ceremonies and formalities. Helène’s free spirit soon felt the

restraint keenly. She learned that it was not proper to speak except

in subdued tones, and then only of insipid matters. Laughter was

rarely indulged in, for the Mistress of the Ceremonies ruled with an

iron hand. Her first, brief interview with this handsome and stately

dame was an experience she had no desire to renew. She felt that she

had been in a gigantic, upholstered refrigerator after she had been

permitted to retire from that august presence.

Helène sat in her pretty boudoir thinking of her father. Mr. Tyler had

called the day before to tell her that he had received a wire from

Brindisi advising that a letter was on the way. She was expecting

him. Oh, if only her dear father were with her--how different things

would be! She pictured his meeting with the fat Dowager and almost

laughed aloud. How exquisitely polite he would be and yet how finely

independent! She could almost see the twinkle in his eyes at the air

these princelets gave themselves. She hoped it would not be long before

he would come and take her away from these Arctic regions to a quiet

and sunny retreat where they could be alone together in freedom and

happiness. When would he come? Her eyes fell on a little side-table on

which stood a Dresden vase with a cluster of roses in it. Ah, and Mr.

Morton, would she ever meet him again? They were the roses he had sent

her, full-blown and withering now, the flowers hanging on wilted stalks

in spite of the care Josephine had bestowed on them.

It was late in the afternoon and the fading light of the short autumn

day spread a gloom through the room. She rose and switched on the

electric lights of the candelabra, and turning to put the blinds down,

she almost ran into the outstretched arms of a slender prim woman

rustling towards her in silk. Helène gave a glad cry.

“Anna! dear Anna, where do you come from?”

“Ach, mein Liebchen, but it is good to see you,” and the elderly woman

embraced and kissed her over and over again, the tears running down her

face. “Forgive me, Comtesse,” she begged, releasing the girl, “but I

could not help it. I wanted to see you again.”

“Oh, Anna, I am so glad you are here, so glad. Now that I have my dear

nurse again, all will be well.”

“Why, my little lamb, what is the matter? Are you sick or lonely or

unhappy? Of course, everything will be well. I am going to stay with

you, my little golden mistress. I only just heard of the Princess’s

arrival, and did not lose a minute getting here. Certainly all will be

well now.”

Helène looked at the dear face of her second mother, and felt so

comforted that she believed a Providence had sent the good woman to

her. How good it was to be loved and to have some one near you in whom

you could trust and to whom you could tell the doubts that were racking

your heart!

“But how do you happen to be in Weimar, Anna?”

The question was sufficient to open the sluices of the nurse’s

reservoir of talk; she talked so rapidly that she barely gave

herself time to catch her breath. She was married now--to Anton

Schreiber--Anton had been chief valet to His Highness, the old Duke.

They lived now in Altenburg, in a beautiful cottage with a lovely

garden. Oh, and they were happy and comfortably off, what with her

savings and Anton’s. She had come to Weimar to visit her niece,

Josephine. Why the very Josephine who attended on her sweet lambkin! Of

course! And, oh, how her darling had grown! How beautiful and grand she

looked! And what lovely hair! How long was it since she had seen her?

Yes--three years. Dear, dear, how time does fly! And what had she been

doing? And what brought her to Weimar?

Helène waited patiently, smiling delightedly all the time. However, the

good lady’s breath gave out, at last, and Helène had the opportunity

to open up her heart’s woes. She was so unhappy in the castle, she

explained.

“My dear,” replied the nurse promptly, “take no notice of the

people--they’re not worth it. And we’ll begin at once.” She rose up

quickly and ringing for Josephine said to her, “Tell the man to serve

dinner here for two. I am dining with the Comtesse.--There,” she turned

to Helène, “we’ll make ourselves at home, and do as we like.”

Helène was astonished to find how easily it could be done. She spent

one of the happiest evenings in her life with this nurse, waited on and

served by the lackey who looked to her the reflection of the fearful

formality of the dining-room below. The hours passed so pleasantly that

she knew not they were passing, and was surprised to find that it was

time to retire for the night.

Even then Anna would not be gainsaid; she must put her darling to bed

and see that she was snug and comfortable.

“You are so like your sainted mother,” Anna would say over and over

again, as she helped her to undress. And Helène would cry only to be

soothed again by gentle caresses and soft murmuring words. It was just

like the days of her childhood when Anna would send her to sleep

with plaintive songs and tales of “Red Riding Hood,” and “Aladdin’s

Wonderful Lamp.” And when at last she fell asleep--she slept without a

dream, the peaceful, happy sleep of a child.

The next morning, early, Anna was at the bedside to see to Helène’s

wants. She insisted on dividing Josephine’s duties and taking it upon

herself to dress her “baby,” as she called her.

“Isn’t she the loveliest child you ever saw?” she asked of Josephine.

Josephine agreed laughingly.

“Ah, there isn’t a beauty like this in any other part of the Schloss.

Won’t those dry old maids be jealous! They’ve no chance for a husband

with our little girl, have they, Josephine?”

“No, indeed,” asserted that demoiselle. “They’re sour enough to

frighten any man away--the cats!”

Helène was overcome with her blushes at the irresponsible twittering of

the two women, and begged them to spare her feelings. But she couldn’t

close their mouths--they had not had such an opportunity in which to

indulge themselves in many a day. Josephine went so far even as to hint

of a beau, at which Anna bridled up. Beau, indeed! Her darling had no

thought of beaux. How could she, at her age--only nineteen--the dear,

sweet lamb!

Helène really was relieved when the time came for the two to retire.

She was impatient, too, for Mr. Tyler to come. It was an anxious moment

for her when his card was brought up. He came in quietly, a gentle,

sad smile on his distinguished face. She could not restrain herself,

and made a quick movement towards him, her eyes streaming the question

that her open lips could not utter. With grave courtesy he took both

her hands very affectionately in his and led her to a seat. And then he

told her the sad news--told it with all the kindliness and tenderness

of his finely sympathetic heart. The truth could not be hidden, but

he softened its harshness as only a practised diplomatist like he

could do. And yet the truth was bitter. His heart went out to the poor

orphaned girl for whom he had now come to feel a father’s affection. It

was very painful to see her suffering. At first she could not believe

what she heard, and stood gazing with wide eyes unable to move. But

under Mr. Tyler’s gentle words, she broke down utterly and sobbed as if

her heart had burst. Fortunately, Anna came in, and carried her darling

to her bedroom.

Mr. Tyler told Anna to tell the Comtesse that he would look after

everything, and would call later in the day, when he expected to bring

with him Count Rondell’s papers and last letters. He would remain in

Weimar a few days longer, and would hold himself at the Comtesse’s

orders. “And give this letter,” he added, “to the Comtesse. It is from

a friend. She will be glad to receive it.”

It was, indeed, a Providence that had sent her nurse to her at this

juncture; for Count Rondell’s death had left Helène practically alone

in the world. It is not well to linger over such agonies as the poor

girl endured. They are the common lot of our humanity. Happy are they

whom they leave unbroken in spirit--it is those they strike down who

are to be pitied. Helène was of the sterner stuff, and she was helped

by her nurse. Nothing softens sorrow as love does--and of love Anna’s

motherly bosom was filled abundantly. Herself childless, she had it all

to give to this child of her adoption--and she gave it freely, with a

large measure.

The Princess, also, when she heard the sad tidings, came to her full of

affectionate sympathy; but, alas, what could she do to help her friend!

She was an exile now--a nobody. She would see that the presentation

was put off.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, with tears in her eyes, “If we only had some

wise and powerful friend! We are both of us dependent on the charity of

strangers.”

A friend’s troubles act as a salve to our own troubles, as fire

extinguishes fire, and in her loyalty to the Princess, Helène realized

that she was not alone in her sorrow. The two girls thus helped each

other in their hour of need.

Mr. Tyler kept his word and came, courteously kind and sympathetic as

always. He had seen to everything. He brought with him a considerable

sum of money--her father’s possession--and he proposed to deposit that

in the local bank in the Comtesse’s name. There were a few formalities

to be gone through in that matter, and he had brought Herr Blume of the

Laenderbank to witness her signature to some documents.

Mr. Tyler reassured her of his devotion and begged her to keep her

courage--for her father’s sake.

“You owe it to him, Comtesse,” he said, “as his daughter. Here in this

package you will find his letters. They will tell you everything you

ought to know.”

She took the package reverently.

“I do not know how to thank you, dear sir, for all you have done. I

shall never forget it.”

Mr. Tyler smiled, and with the liberty of his years, bent over and

kissed her hair. “Fear not, be of good heart, and all will be well.

Good-by, and God bless you.”

For some minutes she sat alone, staring straight before her with

unseeing eyes, her fingers playing nervously with the package on her

knees. Then slowly she broke the seals and listlessly removed the

contents of a small box.

She found in it her father’s watch, some rings, a small locket

containing a miniature of her mother, a bundle of letters tied with a

faded ribbon and inscribed, “To my daughter--to be retained, but not

read,” and three envelopes, two of which were sealed and addressed to

her.

The sight of the trinkets moved her deeply, especially the wedding

ring. She took them into her bedroom and sat down near the window.

Taking one of the envelopes, dated October --, she broke the seal and

read. It seemed to her as if she were holding a communion with the

spirit of her father--as if she were listening to a message from the

grave:

“My most beloved child,” it began:

“The mission I had undertaken has failed; my journey ended in

nothing. It has left me so enfeebled that I am not able to move with

any freedom from pain. The doctor tells me I am very ill, and I

realize that I am a doomed man.

“How long a time is still left me I know not; but I must write to you

while I still have the strength. If this letter should reach you, you

will know that I have not been vouchsafed the blessing of coming to

you myself.

“And in this there is no cause for either tears or mourning. I ran a

good race and have reached the goal. My one great grief is born of

the knowledge of the pain my going will give you, my dearest child.

You are so young to be left friendless in this world!

“But I have arranged with my dear friend, Baron Robert de Haas, to

undertake your guardianship. He is in possession of my will. You know

him and like him. He is a man of noble mind and large heart and he

will take my place worthily. I cannot leave you riches, my darling,

but I comfort myself with the thought that you will not regret that

fact. What I have is yours, and, with Baron de Haas’s help, it will

be sufficient to keep you independent and free from want. For the

rest you will, I know, bravely work out your destiny in your own way.

“And now, dear one of my heart, a few last words from your father.

A woman was created by God to be the mate of a man--a good man. If,

as I fervently pray, such a man should enter your life and win your

love, think of your gracious mother to whose influence I owe so much.

A man deserving of your love should be honorable in the absolute

sense of that word--a gentleman, not in title, but in thought and

deed. He must be such that you will always be proud of him and

proud to be the mother of his children, if God so give it. You will

recognize him by these signs: that he is a good son to his parents,

loyal to his country and God and proud of his honor. And if I have

judged my child aright, you will deserve him. In body and in mind,

you are your mother over again, and the earth knew not her like in

beauty of form and nobility of spirit.

“Forgive me for seeming to preach-- Your happiness is so close to my

heart. You have been the reward of my life, my pride and my joy. May

you find peace and love all your life. I am holding you in my arms as

I write these last words:

“Mein Liebchen--Good-bye, until we meet again in God’s own good time.

“YOUR FATHER.”

A postscript, dated the same month and written at Suez, followed:

“I have forgotten my illness in my anxiety about you. Word has just

reached me that de Haas is no more, and I know not now to whom to

turn. With this news came terrible tidings of the happenings in our

poor, stricken Roumelia. I am so far from you and cannot help you.

God alone must help--and He will.

“I think it was God’s Providence that sent me Mr. John Morton, a

young American. He agreed, last night, to take my place and go to

Roumelia and rescue you from the clutches of those rebels. He is to

bring you and Princess Marie-Louise to Weimar. If he succeeds, and I

am confident he will, let him guide you in your next step. He is a

gentleman, and he can help you. You may rely on his word and, if I am

a judge of human nature, he will not fail you.

“It is useless to say much--and needless to say more.

“If I could have come myself, I would not have sent a substitute.

“May God take you under His protection.”

Helène’s face was bathed in tears. It was with trembling hands that she

opened the second letter. The handwriting was feebler and the lines

very uneven. Evidently, her father had written it under great mental

stress.

“BRINDISI, November 6, 189--

“MY DARLING CHILD:

“Mr. Morton left two days ago for Roumelia with my prayers. I have

heard no news of what is happening there and I fear the worst.

“My strength is failing fast and the doctor sent me from Rome by my

American friend has been very frank with me. I have but a few days