The letter took a long time writing and had cost Helène many a

heartache and not a few tears. She had been filled with doubts even

while writing it. It was so easy to shift her burden, and this man

would have accepted it gladly. But how would she seem in his eyes in

that case? How could she accept such a service from one who had already

served her so abundantly? What right had she thus to call on him?

No--the letter was best. She felt more at ease with herself, more

determined in spirit, more resolute of purpose, stronger in will, now

that it was written.

Early the next morning she packed her few remaining possessions in a

small valise and, after leaving a short note for Anna, crept out of

the house and made her way to the railway station where she mailed the

letter to Morton. She waited until the butcher’s boy had brought her

trunk and took a second-class ticket for Hanover, where in due time she

arrived.

An official at the railway station of whom she inquired after a hotel

recommended the “Hanover.” Here she obtained a comfortable room and

after satisfying her hunger she sat down by its window in the dark to

think out a plan of action for the following day.

She sat for a long time looking out on to the brilliantly lit avenue

with its display of the city’s night life and wondered what place she

could fill in it. It was a new world to her--a bewildering world--even

a terrifying world. She must now mix in it--play her part in it

unprepared and unaided. Her heart sank at the thought. And this was

what was meant by life! This was what thousands of girls had to face!

Well, she would face it, too, and do her best. If others could succeed,

why not she? And if she failed--but she would not think of that. She

would not, must not fail. She would begin by going to an employment

agency and offer herself for a position as governess. She knew French,

German and English--these were not common accomplishments and, surely,

they were wanted and would be paid for!

But what a change from her life in Roumelia! Ah, beloved Roumelia! She

pictured the Rosen’s home in Padina--the last real home she had known.

It brought Morton back to her mind. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes

to the lights without, so that she could be alone with her image. Had

he meant all that was implied in his last words? Or had he but used

similar words to her that he had spoken to other girls he knew? No,

no, no, she could not believe that. He was not that kind of a man. Her

father had said of him that he was true and noble, and her father, a

wise man and of great experience, knew men well. It was wrong in her to

doubt him.

“I must leave the rest,” she whispered softly, “in God’s good hands.

Until, then, good-bye, my knight.”

Thus, greatly encouraged and with a mind calmed and at rest, she lay

down and slept the happy sleep of those who feel they are loved.

CHAPTER XXI

True to her resolve, Helène called the next morning at the “Agentur für

Gouvernanten,” the address of which she found in a directory at the

hotel. The experience was a disappointing one. The official gave her a

form to fill out for her name, address, accomplishments and references.

The registration fee was six marks, payable in advance.

As she had no references to give, since she did not wish any of her

friends to know where she was, she filled in the form without the

references.

Helène began to realize that finding a situation might take a much

longer time than she had expected. She, therefore, decided to leave

the expensive hotel and take a room at a modest pension. She was soon

accommodated and spent her days mainly in reading and answering the

advertisements in the daily papers and the “Teacher’s Journal.” On two

occasions she received replies requesting her to call, but nothing came

of her visits--she could give no references. She persevered, however,

convinced that something would turn up some day.

The days lengthened and the snow had disappeared altogether from the

streets. In the park, where she loved to take her walks on sunny

afternoons, the keepers were busy cleaning up the grass plots and

planting flowers. The trees were beginning to burst into foliage; the

leaf buds of the lindens were swelling; the birches began to show

their pretty little pussy-tails and the sparrows and starlings were

twittering their first spring songs. The faces of the people she met

took on expectant and hopeful expressions.

One beautiful, sunny morning she received a letter from a Frau

Professor Heimbach, asking her to call in response to her application

for a governess for her two children. The Frau Professor lived on the

second floor in Hegel Strasse.

Helène had no doubt she had at last succeeded in getting what she had

been hoping for. She was so overjoyed that, for the first time in

months, she sang while eating her breakfast. She arrayed herself in her

best clothes and set out looking the very incarnation of the lovely

spring weather.

Hegel Strasse looked like the very place in which a Frau Professor

might live. It was in a very respectable neighborhood and the house

itself a faded remnant of a one-time dignified and imposing structure.

With a beating heart Helène ascended the unadorned, cold stairway

and pulled the bell-knob below the brass-plate which indicated that

Professor Albert V. Heimbach, Ph.D., lived within. She could hear in

the distance the shrill tinkling sound of the bell. After what seemed

to her an eternity the door opened and an unkempt maid with a red

upturned nose appeared. To Helène’s request to see the Frau Professor,

the servant made no reply, but looked her over very carefully from

head to feet. The inspection appeared to be satisfactory, for the girl

nodded and beckoned to Helène to come in.

At the end of the narrow entresol and sharply outlined against the

bright light which came from a distant room, Helène saw a tall, slender

woman approaching.

“What is it you wish, Madame?” she inquired of Helène.

Helène explained that she had come in response to the Frau Professor’s

advertisement for a governess.

“Come into the room, and be seated.”

In the increased light of the sitting-room Helène faced a tired and

somewhat faded woman, still young, but of a most meagre appearance, and

painfully flat-chested, with pale bluish eyes and thin bloodless lips.

The close fitting bodice of her dress accentuated the length of a thin

neck which stuck up from her shoulders and seemed as if it were a stalk

bearing the small head above it. She spoke in cold, knife-edgy tones.

“Have you had any experience as a governess of children, Fräulein?”

“No--Frau Professor--but....”

“Pardon me, Fräulein--answer only my question, if you will be good

enough. Have you any references from your pastor, or the Council of

your district?”

“No, gnädige Frau Professor.”

“Do you feel yourself competent to teach my two children the subjects

of the North German School curriculum?”

“I think I am quite competent. I am fond of children and....”

“Pardon me, I did not ask you for that information. Have you ever

taught children?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Where?”

“At Gratz--I assisted the Sisters of the Holy Heart.”

“What are your accomplishments?”

“I speak French very well--also English. I play the piano, draw and

paint a little and can embroider and sew.”

The Frau Professor’s face seemed as if it might have been touched by

a faint interest--it almost smiled. Painting and embroidering were

evidently desirable qualities. She had kept her feet crossed during the

examination but she now separated them and displayed a pair of shabby

shoes sadly down at heel. Leaning forward she examined the very young

applicant carefully but not unkindly.

The door leading to an adjoining room, just at that moment, slowly

opened, and after a few moments Helène saw a curly-headed, blue-eyed

little girl stretch its head into the room. The mother turned quickly

and called out: “Close the door, Emilie--you must not be inquisitive.”

The child disappeared instantly. Helène felt sorry to see her go--her

heart had gone out to the dear little thing.

The interruption seemed to have acted on the Frau Professor as a

reminder of her position. She leaned back and folding her arms gazed

for a long time at Helène’s face and clothes with a dreamy look in her

eyes. Finally, she seemed to make up her mind and began to speak, at

first hesitatingly and then more firmly:

“Fräulein, will you let me tell you something--something which I

believe you will thank me for hereafter? You are looking for a position

as governess in a family. By your own admission you have had no

experience in such work and cannot furnish testimonials.”

Helène turned pale and then reddened.

“I want to be perfectly frank with you,” resumed the thin lady; “I

admit that your accomplishments, your appearance and your manners are

greatly in your favor; but you are seeking for employment in the wrong

direction, Fräulein.”

“Oh, Frau Professor,” cried Helène eagerly, “I can learn; and I am so

anxious to please. I would love to teach your children, and I am sure

they would like me. I shall try to make them like me. Won’t you just

give me a trial, please?”

The Frau Professor’s brow clouded and her face turned a brick-red

color. With an effort she seemed to be suppressing her feelings. Then,

laying a hand on Helène’s gloved ones, she bent over and in a softened

voice said:

“My child, you cannot and should not expect that from me. Ten years

ago when I married I was a blooming, fresh girl like you are, though,

perhaps, not quite so attractive. Look at me now. See what those ten

years have done for me.”

She stood up and stretched out her arms. It was a pathetic gesture.

“My husband is a kind and good man. He has his work to do and his

studies. But the romance of his life--so far, at least as I can affect

it, has gone out of him. Look at me and you will see what the drudgery

of household duties, the care of children, the worry of making both

ends meet, have made of me. My youth has departed from me, and with it

have gone all the joy I have known and all the beauty I ever possessed.

“Do you expect that I should bring a beautiful young being like you

into my home? Why, my dear, your presence would be a daily reminder to

me, and to my husband, of my helplessness and futility. I could not

compete with you. And there is not a woman in Hanover who would dare

risk it. I am not doubting you. I am sure you are good and pure. But we

are all fighting to keep the little flame of our husband’s admiration

still burning in his heart for us. It is so small that it would die,

oh, so easily if ... ah, my dear Fräulein, it is impossible.

“Take my advice and marry some good young man. Or, if you must find

an occupation, look for it where women do not rule. Forgive me for my

plain speaking; I do not mean to pain you. Were I a great lady with a

magnificent household and many servants, I would engage you without a

moment’s hesitation. As it is, it is out of the question. I ask your

pardon, Fräulein Barton, and wish you a good morning and good luck.”

Helène knew not how she found herself in the street, but the sunshine

seemed as if it had been washed from the sky suddenly as by a soiled

rag. She walked mechanically, her heart numb, her brain dulled, without

knowing where she was going. She had but one conscious feeling--to hide

herself, to be alone. At the corner of the street she hailed a ’bus and

shrank into its remotest corner. She allowed it to pass her pension;

she would go into the park and sit there and think over what she should

do. There at least she would not be molested. The trees and birds and

children would not chide her.

In a quiet circular spot edged with boxwood she found a seat on a bench

in a sunny corner where the tender green of the shrubbery spoke of a

reawakened life. The sparrows hopped about her for the cake crumbs she

threw them. It was too early in the season for the nurse maids and

their perambulators and only occasionally a park gardener would pass

along the walk wheeling his barrow of turf or soil and leaving behind

him the fresh scent of earth.

Helène sat in a pathetic mood, too depressed to think. Her encounter

with the world had stunned her, and she found herself utterly at a loss

how to renew the attack. Suddenly, she heard the crunching sound of

quick, firm foot-treads on gravel. Turning her head in the direction of

the sound she saw a tall, fine-looking woman coming straight towards

her. As she approached nearer, Helène noticed that she was young

and neatly dressed in a smart tailor-made costume which set off to

advantage a splendid, though rather stout figure. She recalled now

that she had seen this young woman in the rooms of the Arts and Crafts

Exhibition, and had admired her freedom and grace of movement, so

unlike that of the other women. Evidently she was a foreigner.

In passing, the lady gave Helène a smile of recognition; then stopping

suddenly, as if on a second thought, she turned back and went up to

where Helène was sitting.

“Do you mind my sitting here?” she asked with a smile.

Helène was so surprised at being spoken to by her that she could only

nod her assent. She passed her gloved hand quickly over her face to

wipe away the tears that had fallen unbidden.

“Don’t mind me, Fräulein. I know how you feel. I’ve been in trouble

myself.”

Helène looked up and met two kindly brown eyes looking in sympathetic

admiration into hers. The face, with its healthy coloring and

expression of good nature, drew her in spite of herself. She could not

resist its strong appeal. Smiling bravely, she said:

“I am in trouble; but I feel ashamed of my weakness in giving way.

Thank you for your sympathy.” And rising, she made as if to go.

But the other put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Please, don’t let me drive you away. I’m a stranger here. Won’t you

sit awhile for a chat. I think I saw you at the Art Exhibit. My name

is Margaret Fisher. I am an American and am here on business. Don’t be

frightened, I can assure you I’m a perfectly proper person. I may be

able to help you, if you will let me, Fräulein.”

“You are very good,” replied Helène, reseating herself. “I, too,

am a stranger here. This is my first visit to Hanover. My name is

Helène--Helène Barton.”

“Helène--what a pretty name! Then you are not a native, though you talk

like one. Well, I’m not looking for information, thank goodness. Are

you staying long here, Miss Barton?”

“For a few weeks only. Both my parents were German born, but I know no

one in this city.”

“Then you are alone and an orphan, just like myself. Well, we should be

friends, then.” She drew a tiny watch from her belt. “It’s past twelve;

won’t you come and take lunch with me? I should enjoy having you.”

“Thank you. I shall be delighted. Do you live near?”

“I’m staying at the Metropole. I suppose you live in a pension. Much

better; but I’m only a transient--here to-day, gone to-morrow.”

“Yes, I live at a pension; but I often go out for my lunch.”

“Good, then we’ll go to the Park restaurant. It’s nice and quiet there,

and we can have a good talk. You needn’t be afraid to come. I’m big

enough to chaperon you.”

Helène laughed happily. It was so comforting to hear her friendly,

soft, confident voice.

“You certainly look as if you could take care of yourself, Miss

Fisher.” The two laughed as they walked towards the restaurant.

The good luncheon which Miss Fisher ordered proved an excellent solvent

for Helène’s state of mind, and Miss Fisher herself knew well how

to break down any barriers of restraint that might still remain. It

was evident that she wanted to help this young and beautiful girl in

distress, and when a woman of Margaret Fisher’s temperament makes up

her mind, there is nothing that will stop her.

It was not long, therefore, before Helène had unbosomed herself of all

her anxieties and told her new-found friend of the difficulties which

she had encountered in her efforts to find some occupation. Miss Fisher

looked at her admiringly with tender, motherly eyes.

“Poor dear!” she exclaimed, “I know all about it. I’ve been through it

myself. My father was a German--his people lived near Hanover, which is

one of the reasons why I am here. My business brought me to Europe and

I took the opportunity to look them up. I am the head of a high-class

dressmaking and millinery establishment in New York, Madame Lucile’s,

and I came on a buying trip. I’m going back next week--as soon as the

new models are ready for me.”

“It must be splendid to be so capable as you are,” Helène remarked with

a sigh of regret.

“Ah, but you don’t get there, my dear Miss Barton, without a great deal

of heart-breaking work. It’s not so easy as it looks.” Miss Fisher’s

face clouded a little as if recalling an unpleasant past, but her face

resumed its bright and alert expression almost before the shadow had

left it. She looked at Helène’s beautiful countenance for a long time

and then suddenly she said:

“Won’t you let me help you? You are too young and too pretty to fight

this battle alone. It will make me happy, if you will. I have lots of

money--my firm pays all the expenses.”

“You are more than kind, dear Miss Fisher. Thank you. I know you mean

well; but I’ve some money of my own. I’m not so helpless as all that.”

Helène spoke with her gentle and distinguished courtesy, smiling

charmingly at the same time.

“My dear--let me call you Helène, won’t you?--thank you. You see I’m

much older than you are, both in years and experience of life. We’ll

drop the subject for the while; but let’s stick together so long as I’m

in Hanover, shall we?”

“I shall be only too pleased. You are so encouraging and so--strong.

You make me feel very hopeful.”

“That’s all right. We’ll just go about and see the sights. Maybe we’ll

think something out before my week is up.”

They spent the afternoon together, and Helène promised her new friend

to call on her that evening at her hotel to look over the purchases she

had made.

The evening provided a rare experience for Helène. Miss Fisher

showed her a collection of wonderful laces, ribbons, trimmings,

jets and ornaments which had been acquired for the New York market.

What impressed Helène more, however, was the quick decisive manner

with which Miss Fisher explained everything; the nimble hands which

displayed the articles to their best advantage; the ready words which

fell from her lips in praise of their qualities. Helène had never

imagined a woman could be so capable, and at the same time so jolly and

witty.

Miss Fisher, in her turn, had not failed to observe in her shrewd

way, how quickly Helène assimilated the information, and how alert

the girl’s mind showed itself, in spite of its natural reserve. The

remarks, too, she let fall evinced a taste and judgment quite rare. She

insisted on taking Helène to her pension in a cab, and promising to

look in on her in her exile, as she put it, left her in a happier state

of mind than she had known in many a day.

Miss Fisher returned to her hotel in a very thoughtful mood. She knew

enough of life to guess that her young acquaintance was a gently

nurtured girl of a refined family, unhappily thrown upon her own scant

resources, and in danger of being wrecked on the rocks. Her beauty, her

gentle ways and voice, the pure, simple mind she had shown, all had

made an indelible impression on her and had won her completely. She

made up her mind to befriend her.

The next morning Helène was surprised to realize how eagerly she was

looking forward to Miss Fisher’s coming. The short acquaintance, so

unusually begun, had so quickly ripened under the benign influence of

the American girl’s way of doing and saying things that Helène was

quite conquered. It was all so novel and yet so humbly pleasant that

she wished it would go on always.

This was the first of a number of meetings between the two. Miss Fisher

sounded Helène, and soon became convinced she was really in earnest.

She did not probe too deeply into the girl’s family history--only just

enough to find that her judgment had been correct. She learned that

Helène could speak English--and what a charming English it was, too!

She was sure Madame Lucile would be delighted with her. She would be a

real acquisition to the business, she felt convinced of it.

“See here, my dear,” she said suddenly on one of their walks, “why

not come with me to New York? You tell me you have neither friends

nor relatives and not even an admirer--so there’s nothing to keep you

here. Come with me, and I’ll see that you get a position. New York is a

beautiful city with more opportunities for a girl than any other place

in the world. You needn’t be afraid; I’ll look after you. We can have

a little apartment together and live the jolliest of lives. You are a

born artist, as I saw from your drawings and sketches. I am sure you’ll

get a good position with the people I’m with. Will you come? Say the

word, and we’ll fix it up.”

Helène’s big blue eyes opened wide in astonishment at her friend’s

words.

“Do you really mean it? Can I really do the things you say?”

“Of course you can,” and she put her arms around Helène and kissed her.

“We’ll be a couple of the happiest girls in Manhattan. And no man shall

come between us, either, miss--do you hear? Oh, I’m so happy.” And Miss

Fisher forgot her dignity and jumped again. “I can just see Madame

Lucile’s expression when she sees you. I’ll tell her I’ve brought the

cleverest designer of hats in Europe--the peer of modistes! And won’t

Miss Foucher, the head trimmer, stare! Hooray.”

It did not take Miss Fisher long to make all the necessary arrangements

for the voyage. She had Helène’s berth engaged, a steamer trunk at her

lodgings and a quantity of necessary purchases made in less time than

it would have taken Helène even to think about them. The money she

spent seemed enormous to Helène.

“Never mind, my dear. These things cost far more in New York, where

you’ll want them--and you’re saving money by buying them here. It’s

dollars in New York--not marks. Just you leave it to me.”

Helène looked on aghast and could make no answer. Miss Fisher had told

her she was “some shopper,” and she had certainly not exaggerated. The

way she made the clerks skip about sent the cold shivers down Helène’s

spine. By dusk every article had been arranged for, and there was now

nothing to do but wait until the next morning’s train, which would take

them to Bremen.

As this was to be the last evening before sailing, Miss Fisher

proposed a “blow-out.” They’d have dinner together and go to the opera.

With Miss Fisher, to propose was to act. The dinner was most enjoyable,

and the opera, “Romeo and Julietta,” neither of them had ever heard,

so that they had, as Miss Fisher put it afterwards, “the time of their

life.”

As they parted for the night, they decided to pay a visit to the park

in the morning and have luncheon in the restaurant there, for old

time’s sake, before taking the train.

The day opened cold and blustering. But Margaret saw in it a good omen.

“Leave in rain and arrive in sunshine,” she quoted from some hidden

recess in the treasury of her knowledge. But it didn’t prevent them

shivering in the park.

“Wait until we get to New York. That’s the place for sunshine, if you

like. And not only sunshine, my dear Helène, but a sunny life.”

To Helène, Bremen was a most bewildering place. If it had not been for

Margaret she would never have known where to go or what to do first.

But Margaret knew everything. She saw that the tickets were correct,

saw to the tickets for the dock at Bremerhaven, had their baggage

carefully labeled and checked and wound up at the big steamer as fresh

as when they had left Hanover. Immediately they boarded the vessel

Margaret saw to the stateroom, found out which side of the ship was the

sunny side and had their deck chairs marked and placed there. She saw

the chief steward and arranged with him for good seats at the dining

table; she found the stewardess who was assigned to their cabin and

came to a satisfactory understanding with her also.

“You see, my dear Helène,” she explained to the now utterly bewildered

girl, “we’re going to live on this boat for eight days. We’d better

be comfortable while we are here. We might be good sailors, and then

we might not. You never know. So it’s best to be on the safe side. If

either of us get seasick now, that stewardess will look after us.”

The great foghorn sent out a roaring sound that seemed to Helène loud

enough for the whole world to hear. Clumsily, at first, the big ship

moved, and then, as she gathered headway, steamed out into the gray

expanse of the seeming boundless sea. Helène gazed with bated breath

and beating heart at the fast receding land. There was no turning back

now. She had indeed burned her bridges. How would she fare in this new

land to which she was sailing?

A strong arm slipped round her waist and a warm hand clasped hers in

a firm, motherly grip. Margaret had seen the expression on the poor

girl’s face and had come to give her comfort.

“Have no fear, dear, all will be well.”

Helène let her head fall on her friend’s ample breast and looked up to

the soft brown eyes that were so kind in their meaning.

“You are a great comfort, dear friend. I shall always love you,

Margaret.”

* * * * *

The voyage was calm and uneventful. The weather was fine all the way

and they enjoyed the eight days on the Atlantic as though they were two

school-girls out on a vacation. On the morning of the eighth day the

good ship steamed majestically up the Bay and landed the girls on the

Jersey shore, from whence Helène had a river view of New York.

But the impressiveness of that sight was nothing to her to the noise

and rush of the city itself when she found herself being carried

rapidly on the street railroad. A feeling of terrible depression came

over her. It was all so dirty, so uncouth, so raw. From all sides came

clanging of bells, shrieking of whistles, raucous cries. A wretched

drizzle was falling from a leaden mist of sky. The people hustled

and jostled each other, hot and steaming from under waterproofs and

umbrellas. They seemed an endless stream of humanity coming apparently

from nowhere and going anywhere and everywhere.

But to Margaret it was glorious. She sniffed the raw, damp air and her

cheeks glowed.

“Oh, but it’s good to be back! My proverb didn’t hold out! We landed on

a wet day after all. Well, never mind. It’ll rain sunshine to-morrow.

You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no, Margaret. I think it’s wonderful.” What traffic! What life!

Her voice was drowned in the thunder of trains rushing over their

heads. They were traveling along the avenue towards Margaret’s rooms.

Helène marvelled how the people could bear up under such dreadful

noises. Surely their senses must get dulled and deadened in time! They

crossed Broadway at the risk of their lives, as it seemed to her, but

Margaret had Helène by the hand and laughed aloud. Soon they entered a

quiet square in the center of which was a little park shut in by iron

railings. Margaret explained that this was Gramercy Park where she

lived.

Ascending the brown stone steps of a house near the entrance to the

square, Margaret pressed the bell button. The door had barely opened

when a loud, glad exclamation greeted the two girls.

“Oh, Miss Fisher, I am so glad to see you.”

“Hello, Jane! How are you? How’s Mrs. Kane? Well? Ah, that’s good.

Tell her I’ve brought a friend who is going to stay with me. My room’s

ready, I suppose? Good. Well, we’re going upstairs, but we’ll be down

for lunch. I’ll be glad to see Mrs. Kane if she can come up.”

Then turning to Helène she smiled:

“Come along up, Helène. Our things won’t be here for some time; but

we’ll get along somehow.”

Soon they were joined by the landlady, a pleasant-faced, middle-aged

little woman with a gentle voice and manner. She greeted Margaret

affectionately and shook hands with Helène on being introduced to her.

“My friend will stay with me, Mrs. Kane, if you don’t mind, until you

can find her a room. Have you one free?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher, but it’s only the hall bedroom on this floor. Will

it do?”

“Of course it will. Fix it up for her, there’s a dear.”

The landlady left, casting admiring glances at Helène.

“Helen, dear--it’s to be Helen now, no French edgings here, you know.

Are you happy?”

Helène for answer went up to Margaret and putting her arms around her

neck laid her head on the tall girl’s breast.

“You are too good to me, Margaret.”

Margaret was deeply moved.

“Who could help being good to you, my dear,” she said, stroking

Helène’s hair.

When night came and Helène laid her tired head on the soft pillow

of her bed in the little hall-room, she breathed a prayer of deep

gratitude. Mr. Morton was right. His country was God’s own country.

Then into her heart crept a feeling of sweet gladness. Perhaps--she

would meet him again--her knight, _sans peur et sans reproche_. And,

smiling, she slept.

CHAPTER XXII

John Morton walked the windy deck of the ship as though he were

tramping all the way to Europe. He counted the throbbings of the great

engine and the turns of the screws, so anxious and impatient was he.

The hours were like days and the days like weeks.

Two months had passed since he had placed Helène in Mr. Tyler’s care,

and those two months had left their marks on him. They had changed him

from an adventurous, happy young fellow into a sober, thoughtful man.

But while his brow had become lined his heart still preserved its faith

and hope. He had made up his mind that he would seek out Helène and

marry her at once, if she would have him. During his enforced absence

in America he experienced so overwhelming a desire that he could scarce

restrain himself from throwing everything up to satisfy his heart’s

cravings for a mere sight of her lovely face. In his thoughts she stood

out, by day and by night, as a thing for reverence and worship.

Surely, by this time Don would have traced her; and he pictured to

himself the very place he would meet her, how he would greet her, the

lovely face as it would look in response to his pleadings.

In Liverpool, disquieting telegrams and letters awaited him. No trace

of the Comtesse. The Princess wrote to say that she knew nothing of

Helène’s whereabouts. She had left a short note on leaving Weimar, but

it contained no reference to where she was going. She had drawn some

money out of the bank, and that was all she could learn there. Her maid

knew nothing definite.

Mr. Tyler had written in like manner. The police of Dresden, Munich,

Berlin and Vienna had been communicated with, but with no results.

Detectives had been employed to no purpose. Helène seemed to have

disappeared from off the face of the earth.

“The idiots!” muttered John in anger, “they couldn’t find the Great

Pyramid in a ten-acre lot.”

At Weimar he spent hours going over everything with Donald; but what

that faithful servitor reported served only to deepen the mystery. One

thing, however, was clear--Helène had left in a very unhappy state of

mind.

He wrote an urgent note to the Princess requesting an interview. The

interview was a painful one to both. The Princess broke down and

bemoaned her bitter fate--her inability to protect her friend. She told

him the whole story of the scene in the reception-room and its cause.

Faugh! The thing was nauseating to John. What a Court! What people

these princelets were! He guessed instinctively that it was Witherspoon

who was responsible for the article. He would settle with that fellow

another time. He left the Princess feeling no great respect for her

courage, and more resolved than ever to leave no stone unturned.

And now he began a systematic hunt, on his own account, throughout

almost all Europe. Advertisements were printed in the principal

newspapers. Police records and hotel registers examined, detectives

employed. Blue-eyed girls who read Helène’s description in the

advertisements dreamed thrilling romances and envied the maid who, no

doubt, was the heiress to some enormously rich uncle. Girls with gray

eyes thought them blue and weaved tales of a Prince Charming coming to

set them free. Old maids sighed and old men smiled. But, with all the

interest that was excited, and despite the lavish expenditure of money,

the real Helène remained undiscovered.

Weeks went by and Morton became very anxious. He grew nervous and

restless. As he walked the streets he would examine every young woman

he passed with quick, furtive glances in the vain hope that one of them

might be Helène.

He consulted with Mr. Tyler frequently and that wise man told him not

to worry. The girl herself, he felt sure, would write to him. John

clung desperately to this suggestion. He began calculating the time it

would take a letter to get back to him from America should she have

written him there. Judge Lowell had his instructions and would cable

him immediately on its receipt. The thought calmed him greatly and he

thanked Tyler. He would wait in Weimar until the end of February, by

which time he reckoned a letter might arrive in Cleveland.

Tyler’s judgment was justified. On the twenty-seventh Morton received a

cable from his lawyer informing him that a letter from Germany had been

received and asking for instructions. He promptly cabled back to open

the letter and wire him the whereabouts of the writer.

The answer came: “Party left for place not given. Intends to remain

hidden for some time. Is well. Promises to write in good time. Copy

mailed. My advice not to worry. Family all well.”

There was nothing to do now but to wait. His fears, it is true, were

allayed, but how long would it he before he would hear from her again?

And what should he do meanwhile? On referring his perplexity to Tyler,

that sensible man suggested that he should take a trip around Germany

and look up his old haunts. He decided to do this.

As there was now nothing which should keep McCormick in Weimar, he sent

him home, there to await further orders. He himself went to Bonn, his

Alma Mater, and from there to Munich, where he renewed his acquaintance

with an assistant professor of philosophy, whom he found happily

married. This last visit did him great good. The peaceful home of his

old tutor, where he stayed a few days, acted beneficially on his nerves

and gave him a taste of genuine happiness which lasted him for many

days.

But his restlessness returned. He could not reconcile himself to

patient waiting. His thoughts of Helène, who was never entirely out

of his mind, were charged with anxiety about her welfare. She was so

inexperienced, so young, so beautiful that he felt she would never be

able to fight her way alone. He knew how cruel the world could be to

one of her sensitive nature.

Obeying an irresistible impulse he suddenly took a train for Vienna.

It was there he had last seen Helène. He stayed at the Bristol and

idled his time wandering aimlessly round the city pleasing himself with

the memories the place recalled. The son of Dan Morton the pioneer

was no longer the hard-headed man of business. He had become nature’s

child--the young male longing for his mate. His mother was right; there

was more of the idealistic Randolphs than of the practical Mortons in

him. At the same time, his training made him chafe because he could not

accomplish what he had set his mind on so determinedly. Then the humor

of the situation struck him and he laughed aloud. It was a saving grace

of a laugh; for it brought back his common sense.

That evening, for the first time in many a day, he dressed and went

to the opera. He listened to “Romeo and Julietta,” played by the

splendid company of the Imperial Court. He had an entrancing time.

Juliet was Helène and he Romeo. If only some kind-hearted fairy could

have whispered to him that the same strains which were moving him to

so exquisite a response would, later, stir her heart strings in like

wise! But fairies have been banished from our sophisticated world. Only

children see them and hold communion with them now.

From Vienna Morton went to Berlin and spent a few days with the Tylers.

They were glad to see him looking so well and seeming more contented.

“Youth is a wonderful gift,” thought the old diplomatist, while his

wife could not resist saying to her husband: “What a pity the girl is

so silly.”

At last the long-looked-for letter arrived. John read and reread it a

dozen times, devouring every word and examining each single sentence

for some hint for which his heart asked. He saw nothing to make him

anxious, but he realized now that he must respect her resolutions. He

gave up all further inquiries and search and returned to New York,

quietly resolved and happily content to wait her own sweet pleasure.

The fates would be kind to him, he was sure.

When Morton returned to America, he found that his mother and sister

had gone South. He was not sorry they were away, since it left him

free to give his entire thoughts and energies to the business--work,

downright hard work was the best medicine for a mind distracted as his

was. With Morton-like enthusiasm he plunged into the maelstrom of the

many interests of his vast estates. He was at the office from morning

until, often, late in the evening, consulting, directing, financing

and operating. He took to the game like a duck to water, and found a

new interest in its many-sided activities, and a new enjoyment in

meeting the men who were playing the game either with him or against

him. He was a king ruling a mighty empire, the safety and integrity of

which depended largely on his wise judgment and decisive action. The

experience ripened him.

It was during this period that a letter came from Mr. Tyler informing

him that the Comtesse’s maid, Josephine, had heard from her aunt, Anna

Schreiber, in Altenberg, giving important news concerning her mistress.

It appeared that Helène, after leaving the Weimar Court, had stayed

with her old nurse for some weeks in the quiet little suburb. Helène

had exacted a promise from her nurse not to disclose her whereabouts;

but now that she had suddenly left her, Anna had written to her niece

to know if the Comtesse had returned to Weimar. Tyler had immediately

gone to Altenberg to find out further details. He learned from Mrs.

Schreiber that Helène had left a note stating that she was going

to Munich; but on inquiry at the railway station he was told that

no ticket for Munich had been sold on the day Helène had left. He

concluded by assuring Morton that he would let him know if he learned

anything of importance.

The receipt of this letter from Tyler threw John back into his old

state of anxiety and restlessness. He absented himself from the office

and spent the time alone in his study brooding over what he should do.

His business associates could not understand him. They had begun to

admire the young man, and had thought him a chip of the old block. He

had taken the reins with masterly hands and had proved himself a worthy

successor to the old man. But this sudden change puzzled them.

With the approach of Easter Mrs. Morton and Ruth returned and John

joined them in a quiet hotel on the avenue. The first breath of spring

brought him the news that Helène had been in Hanover, but had left

quite suddenly, no one knew where. Mr. Tyler, who sent the information,

wound up his letter by advising John to give up troubling himself about

the girl. “It is evident,” he wrote, “that she doesn’t want you to find

her. Give up this useless hunt and sit down calmly and wait until she

fulfills her promise to write to you.”

John smiled sadly as he read the well-meant advice. It was all very

easy to write those words, but to act on them was not quite so simple.

However, he made up his mind.

That evening he dined at his club and utterly surprised his friends by

his liveliness and change of manner. They didn’t recognize the Morton

who chatted to them in this free and easy way and told amusing stories

with the rest. It was his first plunge into a sea of dissipation in

which he swam as the mood seized him, which it not unfrequently did.

In a short time, he was eagerly welcomed as “a sport” by those who

considered themselves of that select order of beings. He went in for

horses and fine carriages; gave sumptuous dinners, attended race

meetings, and became the envy of the idle and the admiration of the

foolish. Well might his business friends wonder what had come over John

R. Morton!

His mother and sister were among the first to notice the alteration in

him. It distressed them deeply. The two held a council of war and came

to the conclusion that John needed a change. Mrs. Morton suggested a

trip to Japan or papa’s hobby to convert the home on the Hudson into a

Versailles, or a yacht.

But Ruth, with the wisdom that comes early to American maids, pursed

her pretty lips and turned up her impudent little nose at her mother’s

ideas.

“No, dear mamma, none of those things will do,” she said decidedly.

“John is in love. If he isn’t, he ought to be. What we must do is to

get him married.”

Mrs. Morton opened her eyes wide at her daughter’s plain-spoken words.

The precocity of the chicken was amusing and yet, it seemed to her, on

second thought, that it hit the bull’s eye. The suggestion appealed to

her strongly, and the woman in the mother could not resist the prospect

of the peculiar pleasure of match-making. Besides, it was time John

married. He was the head of the house.

Thus was formed the conspiracy in which two loving women sought to undo

all that the object of their affection had been living for. Against

such a combination, the strongest man must of necessity be helpless.

The coming of the spring, therefore, found the Mortons opening up their

country residence on the Hudson. Officially John was the master, but

actually he was a guest with the rest who were invited. The place was

ruled by Ruth through her mother.

Every evening when John came from business he would find the house and

its magnificent gardens and terraces taken possession of by friends

who had been invited for a week or the week-end. Mostly these were

young women--friends of Ruth whom she had known in college or had met

at different seasons. He was introduced to them all. Some he found

interesting, others amusing and others excellent companions at riding,

golfing or sailing. Before he had realized it he began to look forward

to these afternoons and evenings on the river. The lovely spring

weather, too, acted on him like a tonic. He threw off his moroseness

and entered into the spirit of the healthy gay life with all the gusto

of youth.

Occasionally, he would ask his sister the meaning of all this gayety

and entertaining, but that young woman would look at him innocently

with round eyes and would answer that she was just giving her friends a

good time and having one herself. If he wouldn’t bring his friends, she

had to bring hers. And Ruth would leave him not a little puzzled and

also not at all displeased that things were as they were.

But if Ruth and her mother had expected that John would fall a victim

to the fascinations of one of the many charming girls they had so

cleverly placed in his way, they were doomed to bitter disappointment.

He took things as he found them and enjoyed himself to the full. But it

never went further. The pretty faces and alluring graces only served

to remind him more poignantly of “the girl he had left behind him.”

Helène’s sweet face, Helène’s blue eyes, Helène’s soft voice, were

always in his mind, and if he ever was roused to a tender feeling for

one of Ruth’s friends, the vision of Helène would rise up and he would

sigh and turn away.

As the season advanced his mother and Ruth realized that their scheme,

like many others of “mice and men,” had failed. It vexed Mrs. Morton

and she took occasion to vent her feelings to her son.

“John, what’s the matter with you?” she asked, “why are you avoiding

the girls who come here?”

John smiled and at once saw the meaning of the house-parties.

“Dear mother, I’m not avoiding them. I’ve had a delightful time, thanks

to you and Ruth.”

“But don’t you think, dear, it’s time you settled down?”

“Oh, there’s still time for that. I’m only thirty-three.”

“Your father was married long before he was that age. He used to say

that it was to his early marriage that he owed his success.”

“Ah, my dear mother, but you forget he was very lucky. There are not

many girls like you in the world.”

His mother smiled and shook her head.

“It’s very nice of you to say that, John, but you know it’s no answer

to my question. I am really serious. I want you to get married. I want

to see you happy and the father of children. My old arms ache to hold a

grandchild.”

The good lady’s eyes filled with tears. John was moved.

“Dear mother, you’re the best mother in the world. I’ll tell you the

truth. I have not married because the woman I love is lost to me. I met

her in Europe, as I told you, and she has disappeared. I’ve done all

I could do to find her, but without success. I am waiting in the hope

that I may meet her again.”

“Who is she, John?”

“The most beautiful and the noblest girl in the world.”

Mrs. Morton smiled plaintively and nodded slowly several times.

“Of course, my dear, but who is she? The girl you told me about when

you came back?”

“Yes; but please don’t press me for further particulars. When I find

her I will tell you. I hope with all my heart she will have me. I know

you will love her. All I ask of you, dear mother, is to give me time.”

The good lady was greatly moved by this display of her son’s feelings.

It was evident that this love which possessed him was a very serious

one. John saw her anxiety and putting his arms round her shoulders, he

said:

“Mother, dear, you will love her, too, I know. She is just about Ruth’s

age and the loveliest girl God ever created. Won’t you, please, have

faith in me? You will not be disappointed. If I can wait, surely, you

can. Now, dear, just dry your eyes and believe that I know what is best

for my happiness.”

She had to let the matter rest there. She told Ruth it was useless for

them to go on with their plans, because John had plans of his own. An

unfortunate remark to make to Ruth since it acted like a match to the

dry tinder of her curiosity. Who was she? What was she? Where was she?

Where had he met her? Where was she now? Would she meet her?

To all these questions Mrs. Morton could, of course, give no answer.

John had not told her. They must wait his time. He did not himself know

where she was. He was hoping to find her.

Ah, then it was a real romance! How fascinatingly interesting! And

Ruth, afraid to question her brother herself, gave free rein to her

imagination. Nothing but a princess would satisfy her ideas of what

her brother deserved. She must be the daughter of one of the Balkan

kings, and the lady had to wait until she was called to the throne. She

hoped, however, John wouldn’t get mixed up in those wars there. Still,

John would know how to handle matters when once they were put up to

him. She didn’t mind what happened so long as he would be happy. And,

after all, it was fine to have a brother who didn’t run after girls and

who gave his sister good times. Thus did Ruth reconcile herself to the

inevitable, like the practical philosopher she was.

The summer found the Mortons at Newport. John would come up for

week-ends from the city and suffer the boredom of the clubs. The men

he met appealed to him not at all; and a man can be no more alone

than when with his fellow-men if he declines to live their lives. If,

occasionally, he drifted with the rest, he did not drift far. His good

sense, his self-esteem and inborn dignity of character prevented him

from losing himself in vulgar pleasures or in seeking a cheap notoriety.

The understanding he arrived at with his mother had this one good

effect--it recalled him to his better self. He gave up his horses and

avoided the “set” he had come to know during his temporary lapse. He

went back to his business doubly determined to give it his earnest

thought and energies, and the dollars kept rolling in. He became a

recognized power in the world of finance and people began to say of him

that “he beats the old man.”

But in the quiet of his own room, he would sit of an evening alone

engaged in what he smilingly said to himself were “Hellenic studies.”

Helène’s photograph--the same he had received from Count Rondell’s hand

on that memorable interview on the steamer--was never moved from his

study table. The sweet face looked out at him with all the power of its

insistent beauty. Why had he not carried her off at Vienna and married

her there and then? What a fool he had been!

Now, all he could do was to wait. She had said in her letter that she

would write him again a year hence. He read the letter again. No; it

said, “when autumn comes.” Ah, well--autumn was not so far off. But

oh, if he could but see her for just one minute! He wondered if there

was any truth in his friend, Professor Guermot’s theory about thought

transference. If only he could send her a telepathic message to say

to her: “Helène, Helène, I love you. I am waiting for you, dearest,

with my heart in my hand. Time is flying, and I want you--I want you.”

Surely, she was somewhere in this wide world where his impassioned

thoughts might reach her! Was she happy? Was she well? Perhaps she was

in distress and in need! Damn money! Damn fame! If it hadn’t been for

that disgusting newspaper everything would have been so different. Fate

must have loaded the dice against him, as though she had said to him:

“Heads I win, tails you lose.”

CHAPTER XXIII

Margaret Fisher, the buxom chaperon of Helène Barton, soon settled

down to her life in New York as she had planned it with her friend in

Hanover. The day following their landing she was again in the spacious

rooms of the Modiste establishment known as “Lucile’s,” and, as of old,

one of its moving spirits.

As she had predicted, she found it no difficult matter to interest

Madame Lucile (a canny Scotchwoman from Glasgow by way of Dublin and

London and a two years’ sojourn in “Paree”) in her young protegée.

Madame no sooner set her shrewd eyes on Helène than she became at once

interested. She realized at a glance the business possibilities in a

girl of her refined manners, winning ways and pretty foreign speech.

These qualities were certain to subdue the most petulant and exacting

of her clients. And when she found that the girl also possessed both an

excellent taste in colors and an unusual gift for design, she knew that

a treasure had been brought to her.

Helène was installed in a little room at the rear devoted to the

assembling of the ornaments for the finishing of those exclusive hats

so coveted by the ladies of New York, and it was not long before she

became indispensable to this department. Under her deft fingers and

with her enthusiastic good taste and happy inspirations, lean old maids

would be transformed into blushing “buds,” and faded society leaders of

many seasons would reappear as enterprising and yet dignified dames.

She knew instinctively when to apply velvet and where to mass flimsy,

foamy billows. She knew how to bend the brim of a hat so as to bring

out the good feature of a face; she would select just the very sprig

of flowers and give just the right droop of plume; and she did it

all with such grace, good-will and a winning smile, accentuating her

actions with words spoken in so exquisite an accent, that there was

no resisting her. Margaret’s prediction came true; the second month

brought Helène an increase in her salary, and she became the happy

recipient of a hundred dollars a month.

Helène (Madame had rebaptized her with the professional Heloise, Helen

not being, in her opinion, sufficiently “French”), Madame Lucile

determined, was too valuable to lose. Rather than any rival concern

on the avenue should entice her from her she would double the girl’s

salary. But, of course, this was only breathed to herself in the

secrecy of her private office.

The two girls became closer friends than ever and grew more and more

attached to each other. Margaret, in particular, seemed to have found

in the younger and more cultured Helène an object for the satisfaction

of her maternal instincts. No effort was too great, no care too

exacting, if only her little friend was made the happier by it. She

timed her lunch hour to coincide with Helène’s; she accompanied her on

her shopping expeditions; she would take her away from her designing

and bring her home for rest. Rather than Helène should go home alone,

she would wait an hour for her. At the Trust Company it was Margaret

who opened the bank account in her friend’s name and deposited every

Monday the little surplus of wealth. She selected the style of her

dresses and the material; she fussed over them, sewed them, fitted and

trimmed them. She never tired of admiring the little feet, the pretty

hands and the wonderful hair. The dressing of this hair for select

occasions was one of Margaret’s chief delights. If her “darling” had

a cold or a slight headache, she would nurse and pet her, and be the

happier in doing it.

And Helène would accept this devotion laughingly, knowing that it

was given in love, and would return that love with sweet and gentle

affection. She was very happy both in her work, which was pleasant and

interesting, and in their rooms, which were cozy and “homey.”

At the boarding-house Margaret Fisher was a general favorite. Her ready

good-humor, her quick wit and her unaffected, if somewhat slangy,

speech, always found a ready acceptance and a responsive laugh. She was

ever ready with her help and sympathy, willing to listen and equal to a

gossip.

Helène--the beautiful, reserved, lily-like maiden--was worshipped

by all. From the scullery-maid with the Kerry accent to Mrs. Kane,

the kindly autocrat of this little commonwealth, all bowed to her in

delighted homage. The women admired her without a taint of jealousy;

the two men who lived there reverenced her from afar. She seemed to

them like some rare lily that had been transplanted into a city yard.

One of the men was a librarian at one of the city colleges--a ripe,

old scholar; the other, a young Baltimorean, of a retiring manner, was

struggling as an obscure civil engineer. They considered themselves

fortunate to sit at the table and would gaze in awe on the charming

young foreigner--perfectly content to behold her across the six feet of

tablecloth. If either ventured on a nearer acquaintance, he would find

that Miss Fisher had interposed her ample form between them.

Helène had not imparted to her protectress much more of her early life

than had transpired at their meeting in Hanover and on the voyage

across the ocean. Margaret, in the confidential atmosphere engendered

by the close companionship, found the need of telling her friend all

about herself. It was a simple tale, but the pathos of it drew a

sympathetic response from her listener.

Margaret’s father, an educated German of good family, had come to

America during the Civil War. He had been compelled to leave the

Fatherland because of his activity in politics of a somewhat republican

tendency. In New York he became the city editor of one of the more

influential of the German newspapers. It was during this period that he

met and married a German girl whose elder brother kept a small jewelry

and watch-repairing shop on the East Side. He was a kind-hearted old

bachelor and had been Margaret’s earliest admirer and playmate.

It was to this uncle’s home above the store that she and her mother

went when her father died. A year after her father’s death, when

she was fifteen, Margaret went to work at a dressmaker’s in the

neighborhood. They managed to get along very comfortably together.

Her uncle was kindness itself and a genius at his trade. There was no

style of watch or clock he could not fix up and make keep correct time.

He was an expert at chronometer work and was regularly consulted by

captains of ships and even by the Navy Yard.

Six years ago, Margaret’s mother died, leaving her alone with her

uncle. The old man had aged and grown quite feeble then. He longed to

go back to Germany. So strong was this homesickness for his beloved

Harz Mountains that the doctor thought it best to urge him to go. He

went, promising to come back soon, but he never returned. He died

among the pine-clad hills of his birthplace. The little property he

left fell to Margaret and became the foundation for the now greatly

discussed bank account.

About three years after her mother’s death she met a young man--a

decent, quiet fellow, an assistant in a drug-store. She liked him. He

dressed well and was very attentive and kind to her. A year later she

consented to become engaged to him. They were to be married as soon as

his employer had fulfilled his promise to raise his salary and give him

a percentage of the business.

She was sure she did not love him; but she was in no doubt that he

needed some good, capable girl to look after him. He was rather weak

and vacillating; but he was good-looking and any girl would be rather

proud to go out with him. Margaret put it that way, because it really

expressed her mind. She didn’t see what else men were good for any way,

except to be mothered and to walk out with. It was nice for them to

take you out, and it felt good to have a man lean on you and come to

you for advice and the help that a woman could give him.

Well, things went on very happily for some months and then she noticed

that he came less frequently to the house. He would send notes instead,

excusing himself for one reason or another. One evening, when she had

stayed later than usual at the store to finish some dresses for the

Easter season, she went into Krugler’s restaurant, at the corner of

Second Avenue, for her supper, and sat down near a slight partition

or screen of plants. She had scarcely begun her meal when she heard a

familiar voice from the other side of the screen. Peering through the

leaves of the palm she saw her Bert seated at a table with a young

woman. He had his back to her, but she could hear quite distinctly what

he was saying. He was talking in the most endearing words, exactly as

he had talked to her. Then she heard the girl remind him of the young

lady--the serious girl with the money in bank--she had seen him with.

Wasn’t he engaged to be married to her? He passionately protested. It

was not true, he said. He only loved her--the girl he was with now.

The other couldn’t compare with her. The other was all right, but she

had no heart--she was always preaching and talking about getting on.

Margaret waited to hear no more. She had heard too much as it was. The

next day she returned him the little gifts he had made her, including

the engagement ring, and when he called she declined to see him. Since

then she did not care to know any man. Of course, Bert was no loss. She

knew that now, but she had liked him once. Oh, yes, men were all right

in their way; but a girl was far better off not to bother herself about

them. She’d get along just as well.

Helène kept a discreet silence as to her own opinions on that subject.

She was afraid to trust herself with Margaret, least she might betray

her own heart, and Margaret never again broached the subject.

In their promenades together in the city what struck Helène most was

the people. Apparently all belonged to the same class. All were so

happy, so satisfied and so well dressed. Each seemed to be going about

his own business without interference from others and yet everybody was

so orderly. It was all so different from what she had been accustomed

to in her own country. No poverty, no soldiers, no armed policemen, no

officious park keepers, no bowing and scraping before empty authority.

Everybody was free to do as he liked and yet everybody seemed pleased

to be decent and well-behaved. Even the children were unafraid.

In the park where she and Margaret found such enjoyment in walking or

sitting, the children would come up and look their frank admiration

at Helène, their eyes bright and their faces wreathed in smiles. To

Margaret the little ones crept instinctively. She had such an inviting,

motherly look about her that they knew no introduction was necessary

for them to be taken into her embracing arms. It did Helène’s heart

good to watch Margaret’s keen delight on these occasions.

Helène could have had no wiser guide than this friend proved to be.

Margaret Fisher was a genuine native of New York, bred in its peculiar

ways of life, which were at once the outcome of sharp competition

and bonhomie. She seemed to have the wisdom of the serpent and the

innocence of the dove. Her inexhaustible supply of wit, her humorous

way of seeing things, her happy, healthy nature, gave everybody who

came under her influence a sense of the reasonableness and fitness

of things. “You can’t help being in a good humor when Miss Fisher is

around,” Mrs. Kane truly said.

In the daily companionship of such a teacher Helène ripened in

experience. Without acquiring the slang spoken everywhere about

her, she obtained a command of English which was at once smooth and

polished, though she never lost her quaintly pretty accent. Her own

instinct guided her and her refinement of nature compelled from others

a response which avoided the vulgar. People felt they must be different

with Helène, so that they chose their words in speaking to her. They

felt they must be on their best behavior with her.

Spring grew into summer, the more than benevolent summer of New York.

The girls in Madame Lucile’s employ blossomed in colors and gowns

befitting the season; but Helène made no change in her own dress. She

retained her sombre black despite Margaret’s pleadings and Madame’s

hints. And with it all she bloomed like a rare flower amid the commoner

plants. Margaret would put on an air of chagrin and talk of the anxiety

Helène was to her; but none the less she was exceedingly proud of her

protegée. To her friends she would in mock despair say: “What chance

has any girl with Helène, I should like to know?”

On their occasional visits to Art Exhibitions or the Museum, the old

librarian was proud to act as cicerone. He had become the envy of the

rest in the boarding-house, and especially of the young engineer,

because of this privilege extended to him. He had even acted as their

host on two occasions when they had accepted his invitation to partake

of a table d’hôte dinner at a French restaurant.

The Baltimorean listened to the recital of the enjoyment and waited

patiently for his turn. He proved a good waiter. On the eve of the

Fourth of July, he ventured to ask the two girls to go with him to

the beach. Robert McCreedy could hardly believe his ears when his

invitation was accepted. He made a careful estimate and concluded that

a week’s income would about meet the occasion, and prayed that the day

would be fine.

The day broke cloudless with a pitiless sun blazing down. McCreedy was

happy. He did not know that the effect of the sweltering heat of the

past few days on Helène had more to do with Margaret’s acceptance of

the invitation than anything else. He thought that his patience had at

last been rewarded; that the implacable duenna had thought it well to

permit him a nearer access to the object of his devotions.

To Helène, tired and overcome by the oppressive heat, the day proved

a boon and was also an experience of a novel kind. The ride to the

Battery; the ferry trip to South Brooklyn; the open, swaying cars

of the steam railway to the beach; the beauty of the Long Island

landscape; the cool breezes of the rolling ocean--all were new to

her and afforded such interest and refreshment that she forgot her

weariness of brain and body and gave herself up to the enjoyment with

the abandon of a girl. Everywhere were men, women and children on

pleasure bent. Everybody seemed happy. She had already learned many

a lesson from this wonderful democracy, but none appealed to her so

strongly as did this celebration. A great humanity had assembled, as

if at the call of some mysterious voice, and here they were laughing,

playing, singing, care-free and happy, without a sign or a sound of

discord--all members of a national family, as it were. This, indeed,

was a new world--new in a sense that her people in Roumelia could

never understand. It was a revelation of the human heart, an insight

into the meaning of life which was denied to those who have not known

true liberty and have not been permitted the free play of their finer

natures.

The day came to a close but too quickly for Robert McCreedy. He had

spent his wealth gladly and had known a happiness he had never known

before. When Margaret, after consulting her watch, announced it was

time to go home, he looked his disappointment so openly that Margaret

was compelled to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCreedy,” she said, “but we must really get back.”

McCreedy knew, from her tone of voice, that there was no appeal. He

must content himself with the favor that had been granted him. In the

seclusion of his room, later, he relived his happy day. He would see

her again to-morrow. Sufficient for the day was this joy thereof. After

all, the ice had been broken and some day he might get the opportunity

to take her out alone--without that dragon of her friend. Poor fellow!

What dreams he permitted himself! In the hour or two before retiring he

had become so rich that he was sailing in his own yacht with Helène,

happy and radiant, by his side on the deck. And when he slept he

dreamed of a magnificent home with splendid salons through which Helène

“walked in beauty like the night,” and he by her side.

Margaret had long suspected McCreedy’s state of heart, and had taken

care to keep him from Helène as much as possible during the day. As she

sat now, with Helène, in their sitting-room, she looked at the girl for

a sign of resentment at her manoeuvres. But she saw nothing but the

evidences of the happy time she had had.

“What do you think of Mr. McCreedy?” she asked suddenly.

“He’s very nice. He was so kind and attentive, wasn’t he? I hope he

didn’t spend more than he could afford.” Margaret smiled. Her lessons

in economy had borne fruit in Helène’s mind.

“Oh, I guess he wouldn’t do that.”

“No, perhaps not.”

Helène spoke the last words listlessly. The reference to money sent her

mind reflecting on her own life. She was so anxious to save as much

money as she could spare. If Mr. Morton should come, she would then

be in a position to pay him back all that he had spent on her. And

autumn would soon be here, when she must fulfill her promise to write

to him. What would he say when he saw her again? Ah--but would he come?

Cleveland--eight hundred miles away--did people ever travel that long

distance to come to New York? And if he came, he surely would approve!

“Why, honey, you’re not listening to me. I declare you’ve been in a

trance for the last five minutes.” Margaret assumed an offended air.

Helène started and blushed.

“Now come, what were you thinking of? I have an idea there’s a Count or

a Prince buzzing in your little head.”

“Indeed, there is neither Count nor Prince. I was thinking of my old

home. I daren’t think of men with a man-hater like you near me.”

“Well, I won’t press you, my dear. But I’m not a man-hater,” and

Margaret’s voice softened. “I sometimes think it would do me good to

have a man to fuss about and look after. Men are such helpless things.

They wobble from one pretty girl to another, and I believe they can’t

help it. What they want is some woman to mother them. I really think I

would want to mother a man just as I want to take care of babies, and

as I love to take care of you, dearie!”

Helène looked at her friend. Poor, lonely Margaret, she thought, God

had made her to be a mother. The revelation into her friend’s soul was

too sacred to speak about. With instinctive courtesy she changed her

tone covering what she had seen with a veil of light words:

“I’m sure, Margy dear, there are men who are not what you call

‘wobblers.’ I haven’t known many, but I’m convinced there are loyal and

true men. My father was one.”

“I have no answer to that, Helen. I believe it. But as there are not

many girls like you, there cannot be many men like your father was.

Well, dear, it’s getting late and we ought to be in bed. To-morrow will

be another ‘scorcher,’ and we have the new models to go over. And this

weather doesn’t improve the dispositions of the women who want to wear

corsets two sizes too small for them--like Madame Lucile does.”

Helène laughed. “Now you are not just to her. I don’t think she does

that.”

“Don’t you, sweetheart? Well, never mind, I know better. A woman would

be anything rather than fat. Why, even I am sometimes afraid to eat.”

“Oh, Margy, how can you! You are not a bit stout, only big and strong.

Everybody admires you, and Madame is always praising your fine figure.”

“You’re an angel, my dear, and wouldn’t hurt the feelings of a

tax-collector. Give me a kiss, my dear, and good night.”

“Good night, Margy, and thank you for the happy day.”

It was in such intimate talks that Margaret, the strong, protecting

tree to the slender vine, Helène, proved her friendship. In breeding

and education the two girls were poles apart, but the native virtues

and sterling character in each drew them together in an abiding love.

A daughter of the people and a child of an ancient nobility thus met

on the ground of their common humanity. With the passing of the days,

Helène found new interest in her work and became more accustomed to

the new life. Margaret, seeing Helène’s happiness, was happy herself.

Sunshine without and contentment within, with not a cloud on the

horizon of their lives!

Petty incidents like these may seem unworthy of record; but life is

made up of such small happenings. Most of us come into this world

and flit more or less swiftly and pleasantly through the playground

of our childhood and youth as though it were but the antechamber to

some richly furnished parlor. When we enter the longed-for parlor, we

find in it labor and sorrow in plenty. We eat, sleep, dream, enjoy

ourselves a little and then one day we awaken to the sad reality that

we are no longer young. Some kind friend will remark: “Why, your hair

is growing gray!” Another will sympathize and say: “Ah, we are not as

young as we used to be.” He uses the polite plural, but we know he has

a very definite singular in mind. And then comes the day when the roomy

arm-chair is inviting, and the favorite ballad which once whispered

gladness, now only recalls times long, long past. Then it is that the

chatter of youth is a forgotten language; that the faces of women show

only the rouge on cheek and lip and not the glorious eye; when an

invitation to the dance compels us to the confession, “I am too old to

dance,” and to the thought, “did she really want me for a partner?”

when our conversation slips into the question, “do you remember?” when

the past is our present and the future a dread. Ah, if youth knew the

fulfillment of the promises of life, would he or she be gay? It is in

our memory that we live, and memory is but the storehouse of little

incidents. They are the little colored stones, which form the mosaic

background of life. The figures may vary, the genre may change, but the

background is always the same.

CHAPTER XXIV

The halcyon days of that summer were filled with work and innocent

enjoyment for Helène and Margaret. The girls were so happy that the

gods themselves must have become envious, for they sent one of their

number to destroy their happiness.

On days when the heat was oppressive, the girls left their work at an

earlier hour than usual and would then walk along Fifth Avenue. At that

hour the streams of people from shops and business places mingled with

the current of those on pleasure bent. In crossing the thoroughfare,

Helène and Margaret got stalled. Helène, undecided whether to advance

or return, became confused and before she realized it a pair of

spirited horses in an open landau was almost on top of her. Margaret

seeing the danger, rushed up and pushed her into safety. In doing so,

however, she herself was caught by the pole of the carriage, and thrown

down and trampled on by one of the horses.

A crowd gathered immediately and Margaret, now unconscious, was carried

to the sidewalk. Helène, deathly pale and speechless with horror, held

the bleeding head of her beloved comrade in her lap. A policeman who

had promptly arrived on the scene rushed to ring for an ambulance,

when a richly dressed lady of commanding appearance offered to drive

the young woman to the nearest hospital. She was the occupant of the

carriage which had been the cause of the accident. Willing bystanders,

assisted by the officer of the law, lifted the lifeless form into the

landau into which Helène was invited by the owner.

At the hospital Helène was not allowed to go into the ward, but was

requested to await the doctor’s report in the waiting-room. Almost

beside herself with anxiety, she sat in a stupor and could scarcely

answer the usual questions put to her by the doctor in charge.

The lady in whose carriage she had come, sat mutely near the window

nervously tapping the sill, staring absently into the court without.

Some questions were put to her also, but she, too, was too overcome to

answer coherently.

In a few minutes, a terribly long time to Helène, the nurse returned

and whispered that her friend was resting in bed and that a cursory

examination had revealed no serious injuries. The head physician would

be in shortly and would make a more thorough examination. She could

wait until then, Helène was told. The other lady was given the same

information.

The strain of her pent-up feelings relieved by the nurse’s report,

Helène broke into sobs. She thanked God in her heart that her dear

Margaret would not die as she had feared.

“Pardon me, miss,” came a sympathetic voice, “can I be of any help to

you?”

Helène looked up and recognized the dignified lady in whose carriage

she had been driven to the hospital.

“I am glad to learn that your friend is not seriously hurt. I am Mrs.

Van Dusen. It was my carriage that was the cause of the unfortunate

accident to your friend. Won’t you let me help you?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Van Dusen, but I am scarcely able to think. If my

friend, Miss Fisher, is not very badly injured I should like to take

her home. It was my fault....”

Helène broke down, the tears choking her voice.

The unusual beauty, the sweet, refined voice and manner of the young

woman impressed the lady. She sat down near Helène and said in kindly

tones:

“You must not distress yourself, my dear. Your friend will be well

taken care of here. I will see to that. I am deeply grieved the

accident occurred. I saw you and your friend step right in front of the

horses and called out to the coachman; but it was too late. I want to

do all I can to help Miss Fisher. Has she any relatives or friends who

ought to be notified? My son is outside and he will gladly take any

message.”

“She has no friend other than myself. For her sake I shall be glad to

accept any assistance you can give me. It was in saving me that she got

hurt herself. Oh, my poor lovely Margaret....”

“There, there, my dear, it is not so bad after all. Compose yourself.

Here comes the nurse.”

The nurse informed Helène that Miss Fisher was conscious and the doctor

would allow her to see her friend for a minute--but she must not be

excited.

Helène rose eagerly and walked rapidly into the ward. Behind a screen,

on a narrow cot, Margaret lay white and helpless. Her head was heavily

bandaged so that only her eyes showed. On seeing Helène, she smiled

wistfully into the face that was bending over her.

“Hello, darling! I’m all right--only a little bruised. I’ll be out in

no time. Wasn’t it lucky? But who’s going to look after you while I’m

here, little one?”

The nurse approached and whispered to Helène: “Just say a few kind

words for the present. You can come another time.”

“Oh, Margaret, I’m so happy to see you. Don’t worry about me, dearest.

I’ll come and look you up as often as I can.”

Margaret looked back her content; she was too ill to speak.

The nurse touched Helène on the arm. It was time to leave. Kissing the

pale lips, she retired slowly, looking back at the wan face until the

door had been closed on her.

In the waiting-room she found a tall young man by the side of Mrs. Van

Dusen.

“This is my son,” said the lady to Helène, “he will take any message,

Miss--eh----”

“My name is Miss Barton. Thank you, there is no message I wish sent. I

shall wait here for the physician’s report. I will tell Madame Lucile,

myself, later.”

The tall, carefully groomed and good-looking young man approached, hat

in hand:

“Permit me, Miss Barton, to go to her for you. I have a carriage

waiting.”

“Thank you; but it will be better if I see the lady. Madame Lucile is

our employer.”

“Here is my card, Miss Barton,” said Mrs. Van Dusen. “Let me know if I

can be of any service. I shall inquire regularly at this hospital and

my son will see the superintendent and arrange that special attention

be given Miss Fisher. I am deeply grieved at the accident and hope

sincerely that Miss Fisher will not suffer. Good-bye, Miss Barton. Are

you coming, Howard?”

The young man came up to Helène and said in a kind voice:

“Pardon me for suggesting it, Miss Barton, but you ought to consult a

lawyer on this matter.”

“Howard, what do you mean?” exclaimed his mother angrily. “What should

Miss Barton consult a lawyer about?”

“Well, mother, Miss Barton’s friend may suffer in other ways than from

the injuries she has received.”

“Well, of course, I am not going to shirk any responsibility. The young

lady has my card. Come.”

“Don’t forget, Miss Barton, to let my mother know. May I have your

address?”

“Thank you, Mr. Van Dusen, there is no necessity for that. Good

afternoon, madam.”

Mother and son had no sooner left than the nurse came in bringing the

physician in charge. Dr. Loomis relieved the girl’s mind by telling her

that her Miss Fisher was in no danger. She would remain for the present

in the ward until she had recovered sufficiently from the shock. No

bones had been broken, but the bruise on the head was rather severe.

Every care would be given her friend. “Don’t be anxious, my dear young

lady,” he said, “we shall get her quite well again. Good-bye!”

The nurse informed Helène that she could visit her friend every day and

that Mrs. Van Dusen, who was a patroness of the hospital, had left word

that the patient should be most carefully attended to. Helène thanked

the woman.

From the hospital she hurried to Madame Lucile’s home and was greatly

relieved that the lady took the news as she did. Madame promised to

look after everything. Helène, for the first time since she had been in

America, went home alone.

And now began the trying and anxious time. Every day Helène called at

the hospital, but was not permitted access to the sick-room. Margaret

had an attack of brain fever and could recognize no one. She would

leave for Madame Lucile’s in tears. There she worked for two to drown

her anxiety. But the lonely evenings and tearful nights followed and

they had to be borne by herself alone.

Mrs. Van Dusen had called on Madame Lucile and had offered to defray

the expenses; but Helène firmly refused to accept the offer. Margaret

and she could afford to pay them themselves.

Whenever Helène visited the hospital, she would find Mr. Van Dusen

waiting, ready with a courteous request to be of service, and repeated

the offer his mother had made to Madame Lucile. But Helène declined

both. On one occasion he asked permission to call on Miss Barton. This

she also declined. When Margaret recovered from the fever, he sent her

flowers almost daily. Twice Helène received a large box of beautiful

lilies at the boarding-house with his card. She wrote him a polite note

of thanks in which she told him that she would take the flowers to

Margaret.

At the end of three weeks, Margaret was declared to be out of all

danger. Her wounds had healed and the bandages had been removed. On

the left temple showed a livid scar, but the nurse assured Helène that

this would disappear in time. In a week Margaret would be allowed to go

home; but the doctor advised a rest at the seashore or in the mountains

before returning to work.

Mrs. Van Dusen claimed the right to provide for this rest, at least,

and begged Margaret to accept the hospitality of her country place in

the Kittatinnies, which was only an hour’s ride from New York, and

where the mountain air was cool and invigorating. “I have been so

unhappy, Miss Fisher,” she said, “about the accident, and you’ve let me

do nothing.”

Margaret compromised by agreeing to stay at a farm-house near Mrs. Van

Dusen’s place and to use that good lady’s carriage. But she insisted on

paying for her board. Mrs. Van Dusen was only too glad that she had

been able to prevail over Margaret’s independent spirit to that extent.

Her visits to the hospital had made her acquainted with the girl’s

fine nature, both in the courage she had evinced in pain, and in the

devotion she showed to Helène. Mrs. Van Dusen could not help but look

up to so grand and yet so finely democratic a character.

In the younger girl, with the gentle, well-bred bearing which, as she

readily saw, but veiled the reticence of inborn dignity, she had found

a rare personality. A girl entirely aloof from her surroundings and who

was yet self-supporting and happy in the small circle of her life. Mrs.

Van Dusen, the society leader and proud wife of one of the wealthy men

of New York, could not fail to see that this simple, dignified girl was

her equal in everything but worldly gifts. She tried hard to pierce the

armor of modesty and unselfishness in which the girl clothed herself;

but its very inoffensiveness proved it to be a stronger protection than

anything else could have been.

Her son, Howard, had confessed to her that the younger of the two girls

had made a deep impression on him, but, he ruefully added, “I’ve not

made much headway with her.”

To Helène, the American custom which permitted a young man and girl to

meet and converse freely and alone, was one which she either did not

understand or did not approve. Van Dusen’s escort to the boarding-house

was rather suffered than accepted. Upon arriving at the home, she would

bid him good-bye, and take no notice of his hints for an invitation to

call. His floral gifts she invariably transferred to Margaret. He had

to admit frankly that he had not made a very favorable impression. His

mother wisely said nothing.

At the Post’s farm-house Margaret found herself comfortably established

on the second floor. She wrote every day to Helène glowing accounts of

the beautiful country and urged her to come and visit her for a few

days. The people were nice and kind and there was a quaint room which

she could have all to herself. She was getting quite strong again and

had acquired a tremendous appetite. She pleaded so earnestly that

Helène finally agreed to go if Madame Lucile gave the permission.

Certainly the prospect of a vacation did look alluring. She had been

working hard during Margaret’s illness and had been very lonely and

depressed in spirits. She had even denied herself the few hours of

relaxation she had enjoyed when Margaret was at home, and had kept

herself confined during the hottest days--a trying ordeal to anyone

living in New York, and especially so to a foreigner.

The canny lady from Glasgow was too pleased to extend a vacation to

Mademoiselle Heloise, and thus it happened that by the Saturday before

Labor Day Helène had made all her preparations and was ready for the

great event.

As she was utterly ignorant of ways and means, Mr. Diderot, the

fatherly librarian, was duly impressed to act as escort to the dreaded

Terminal and Ferry. Mrs. Kane, with many motherly admonitions, kissed

her good-bye and put her in charge of her elderly lodger. The old

gentleman, proud of his duty, had spruced himself up and assuming a

youthful gait, walked vigorously by her side carrying the suit-case.

His hailing of the street car was done with a dignity which can be

compared only to the bearing of the Mayor escorting the President of

the United States to the City Hall.

In the waiting-room at the Ferry, Helène was glad to sit in the cool

protection from the heat while Mr. Diderot negotiated the various

transactions necessary to obtaining the ticket and checking the baggage

for the particular place in the New Jersey vastness to which his charge

was bound. The crowd of people hurrying here, there and everywhere, so

bewildered the poor girl that she hardly dared to lift her eyes. She

almost regretted her step in taking such a long journey alone into an

unknown country.

At last her escort returned. She rose eagerly and he led her into the

pushing crowd where she was gently propelled through a narrow strait

flanked by two sharp-eyed men armed with shining punchers, into a

spacious room filled with a motley assortment of people of both sexes

and all ages.

A slight shock followed by a tremor through the wood flooring startled

Helène. But Mr. Diderot explained that she need not be afraid--it was

only the arrival of the ferry-boat. At the opened gateway, he handed

her the ticket for Charlotteville and wishing her a pleasant journey

he bowed in his punctilious way and left her to the mercy of the crowd

that soon pushed her on to the boat. What a hurrying and scurrying and

jostling and hustling! Men with packages and suit-cases, women with

suit-cases and packages and children; men with golf bags and women

with dogs; children clinging frantically to their mothers’ skirts--all

perspiring and all craning their necks to swallow the river’s breeze,

thankful of this respite from the city’s heat.

A clanking of bells, a shrill, long-drawn whistle, a clinking of chains

and she was off--off on her wonderful journey across the majestic

river to the hazy, mysterious shore of Jersey--her first travels into

America. She gazed about her at the people sitting on the low seats

and standing in the doorways; they seemed to her to be different from

those she had met in New York. The men were so important, the women so

self-conscious and the children so droll.

Through the open windows shone the reflection from the waters of the

river, the waves of which sparkled in the sunlight. Busy little tugs

saucily stretched their prows; cumbersome ferry-boats glided past as

mountainous shadows. The fresh air and the wide expanse gave her a

sense of assurance. She decided to risk the outside platform.

As she stood up to go out a sudden recollection made her start. Where

was her suit-case? For a moment she felt as if her heart was sinking;

but the next moment she gave a sigh of relief as she remembered that

Mr. Diderot had “checked” the case to Charlotteville. She felt for the

precious pasteboard in her handbag and smiled when she found it was

safely there.

On the platform without she looked about her drinking in the wonderful

expanse of water and free air and blue sky. The great river with its

baggage and floats, tugs and steamers, sailing vessels and a big liner

steaming slowly down towards the Bay, little launches and graceful

yachts, appeared to her like the river of life itself. Looming up

and drawing nearer and nearer, the cavernous train-shed flanked by

stupendous grain elevators, looked to her like gigantic fortifications

guarding and preventing a possible entry into the green country beyond.

Where did the railroad begin, she wondered?

And now the people began their jostling and hustling once more.

Packages were seized and children grabbed at the sound of the clanking

of chains and the turning of windlass. Then came the rattling of iron

gates being opened and the living stream poured itself on to the land.

For a moment she looked about her, bewildered, but seeing a uniformed

individual, she plucked up courage to ask him the way to her train.

He scarcely deigned to notice her, but with a motion behind him he

said: “Track number four to your left.” Helène was no wiser, but she

dared not risk another inquiry and walked with the crowd. She heard

a benevolent looking elderly person in a magnificent uniform and

gold-laced cap singing out some words she could not understand. She

found her courage, however, and put her inquiry to him. To her relief

he led her to the car and even assisted her to mount the steps. The

quick transition from the outer glare to the dark interior caused

her to falter; but seeing that other people were making free with

the cushioned seats, she chose one for herself opposite a wholesome

looking, stout lady and a small girl. She was too timid to look about

her and was almost afraid to return the happy smile of the little child

across the aisle. At last came the long cry “All aboard,” followed by a

hissing noise and the train--her train--moved slowly out.

She was really on her great journey! As the engine gained headway the

train passed the pillars along the track and dived into a cavernous

deep cut on to a long trestle over the housetops. Then winding its

way between simmering and smoky factories, past ugly board fences

and stretches of open land covered with rubbish, it thundered over a

bridge spanning a broad expanse of muddy water. Round a sharp curve

with a shriek as if of desperation, and there she was in a lovely

meadow gleaming green in the sunlight, the reeds and the bulrushes

waving in the breeze--the country! America--the long sought for land of

romance--the New World!

Her heart beat with the excitement of the rush, her eyes fixed on the

swiftly moving landscape. The deep rose color of the giant mallows

enlivens the sage green of the reeds; narrow veins of tidewater wend

their courses with almost geometrical directness through the dark

muck of the salt meadows; in the distance are seen the rounded humps

of dwarfed hills and the tall smoke-stacks of factories. Then another

river is crossed--a broad stream with shallow barges loaded with

crimson bricks and yellow clay. The landscape gradually changes to

cultivated farmlands. Clumps of trees, cottages and cows--real live

cows grazing along the hedgerows--appear and disappear. Through the

opening in the foliage are seen small villas and occasionally more

pretentious houses; lawns and stone walls; highways with carriages and

bicycles. Another rush into a deep cut walled in with rocks and then

a gentle gliding into the open revealing a hilly country with houses,

gardens, rows of trees and avenues. With a rumble, a short bridge over

a stream traversing a deep green pasture is crossed and the train

rushes through a quiet street. Out of the village with a noise as of

many waters and into another cut flanked by a rocky ledge dripping with

moisture and overhung with brambles that almost brush the windows of

the cars. Then once more into the open, rolling land.

On and on, northward, the train speeds. Now and again it stops at some

small station with a grinding noise and, after a few passengers alight,

the engine bell rings once more, the hissing of the brakes deafens the

ear, and with hoarse puffs and groans, it is off again, squeaking,

bumping, swaying with dust and cinders floating and flying into the

cars.

It is all a stunning, bewildering, amazing and wonderful experience to

Helène. She finds herself speculating as to what will come next, hoping

it won’t last long, and wishing it wouldn’t be over quickly. She is

under the fascinating spell of quick motion through space and is in a

continual tremor of excited anticipation.

And now, all at once, the landscape changed entirely. Beautiful

valleys, fine streams shaded by giant trees, broad fields, endless

levels of tasseled maize moving in the wind passed by her like a

swiftly moving panorama. The hills became more abrupt, the mountains

shut out the horizon. Houses were now fewer and smaller. The mirror of

a lake gleamed between dark foliage. A weather-beaten gray structure

resembling a wrecked whaler, though it was only an ice-house, causes

Helène to start back as its black shadow darkened the windows. Then

came a grinding of iron wheels on the metal, a creaking and a scraping,

the train began to slow down, and with a shock it pulled up at the

station--Charlotteville.

She doesn’t realize that this is her goal until the conductor speaks

to her and a begrimed brakeman grabs her bags with a “your station,

miss.” Helène follows with a sinking of the heart and is left, standing

forlorn on the hot, dried boards of the platform, contemplating a

number of boxes, trunks, plows and lawn-mowers which lie around. She

gazes after the fast disappearing train utterly at a loss what to do or

where to turn.

“Be ye lookin’ for somebody, miss?” The question came to her in a

quavering, falsetto voice.

Turning quickly she beheld a whiskered nondescript of a man looking at

her with shrewd eyes and a dry smile on his thin lips.

“Yes, sir,” she answered; “Mr. Post was to meet me.”

“I guess, it’s Bill Post ye mean, miss. Thar’s his team--that sorrel

over yonder. I guess I’ll tell Artie.”

It was Bill Post’s team all right--the large blondish horse of the

breed of hard working cousin of a percheron and a box-like wagon on

the driver’s seat of which a boy of tender years with the face of a

Methuselah, sat humped. The whiskered owner of the falsetto voice

deposited Helène’s valise on the tailboard of the wagon and helped her

to a seat by the side of the silent and prematurely aged Artie who,

without opening his lips or moving a facial muscle, gave a peculiar

chuckle, and the noble steed was off at a heavy, leisurely amble.

“Git ap, Major!” came from the tightly closed lips of the boy, and at

a slightly faster gait they skirted the long, rambling frame building

with the sign, “John P. Brown’s Hotel,” the guests of which on the

stoop stared inquiringly after the ill-assorted pair on the wagon.

Next came an unpretentious structure greatly in need of the painter’s

services bearing the legend, “Post Office.” Passing this they entered a

gray highway, bordered with dust-covered bushes and weeds.

The first part of the drive lay across an unattractive stretch of level

fields baked hard by months of constant sunlight, the green of the

sparse vegetation of which seemed as though it were struggling hard

to overcome the all-enveloping gray. The air vibrated with the heat

and was laden with floating particles of dust. Helène’s spirits sank.

Was this the beautiful, wild rural America? Her eyes were smarting and

her throat parched and itching. Suddenly the vehicle turned round a

sharp bend in the dust-covered road to a short bridge with a somewhat

elevated approach.

What a miraculous change! And oh, what a blessed relief! Under the

rattling boards of the bridge ran swiftly the most refreshing of clear

waters on which graceful fronds floated and trembled in the current.

The banks of this stream were fresh in green and resplendent in the

gay colors of flowers. A little beyond the road were deep shadowy

woods of giant trees with moss-covered trunks. The bright foliage was

altogether free of the oppressive dust. The brilliant yellow of the

golden-rod vied with the heliotrope and the purple of wild asters to

form a charming foreground inviting to the shady depths beyond. Helène

was enchanted.

“What is the name of this pretty stream?” she risked in her meekest

and softest of tones. She was really afraid to speak to this boy of

twelve, with the serious immobile face that appeared so supernaturally

indifferent to mere worldly things. It was almost a sacrilege to

disturb so calm and superior a being.

“Pequannock.” And then, as if he had condescended too greatly, “Git ap,

Major!” The rest was silence.

But the ice was broken, for when they passed an opening in the wood

which showed a large house with broad, sloping lawns in front of it, he

volunteered the information, “Mr. Van Dusen’s place.”

Helène was greatly relieved. He was just a boy like any other boy,

after all, and not a youthful Cyclops or a Rapunzle. She asked more

questions--about the district, about Miss Fisher, about himself--to all

of which he replied in sentences of gradually increasing length. So

that when at the end of the two miles’ drive which took the ungainly

horse half an hour to cover, they drew up before a newly painted house

with a row of fine old maples shading it, she and the youthful “whip,”

had become fast friends.

Margaret had spied the family vehicle in the distance and was at the

gate to meet Helène. Affectionate greetings exchanged, Helène was

shown to her room and ordered to remove the stains of travel.

“I’m just too happy for words to have you here,” exclaimed Margaret.

Helène looked at her friend and was delighted to see that she had

improved greatly. Her cheeks showed the return of color, the scar on

the temple had lost its dull purple, and the expression on her face was

just the same Margy’s of old.

As they were descending the stairs, Margaret whispered: “They are

dying to see you; but they wouldn’t for the world let you see their

curiosity. We must go to them in the kitchen.”

“Mrs. Post, I’ve brought my friend, Miss Barton.”

Mrs. Post, a painfully plain and stolidly built woman of middle age,

was busily engaged at the range, cooking. She turned a kindly face on

hearing Margaret’s voice.

“Pleased to meet ye, Miss Barton.” She wiped her hands deliberately on

a clean apron and let them drop resignedly. Then, seeing the hand of

Helène stretched towards her, she seized it with a glad smile.

“So ye be Miss Fisher’s friend, be ye? Maybe ye’re tired after yer long

trip, hain’t ye, miss?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Post, the journey was delightful and new; especially the

drive to the house.”

“Waal, I guess it be. I ain’t had a ride ter the city for nigh on five

years. I mean Paterson. I’ve never been to Noo York all my life. But

ain’t ye hungry? Dinner’ll be most ready in an hour--can ye wait that

long, miss?”

Helène could and gladly would.

The two friends retired to rest in the shade of the roomy porch, and to

exchange confidences. There were not many but, such as they were, they

were interesting to them since they were born of their own lives.

Margaret betrayed an anxiety lest others who were more wealthy and

could offer more pleasure and comforts, might entice Helène away from

her. Her questions were carefully framed, however, and Helène replied

frankly and freely. She had not seen Mr. Van Dusen more than she could

help. She had really thought little or nothing about him. Her mind had

been too much occupied with her work and with thinking of Margaret.

Margaret, however, was not quite satisfied and persisted in putting

more questions all bearing on the same subject, until Helène was quite

puzzled.

“What is it you are driving at, Margy? Tell me, now--what’s in your

head?”

Margaret looked into the honest eyes of her friend, clear as a June

sky, and was satisfied.

“I guess, nothing, my dear,” she said, “nothing at all. I love you so

that I suspect everybody has designs on your affections. I guess I’m

just a jealous, selfish old thing. Forget all about it.”

After the mid-day meal Margaret, in obedience to the doctor’s orders,

retired to her room for a rest. Helène, left to herself, took a book

and recalling a shady nook she had passed on her way to the farm-house,

crossed the road and sought its seclusion.

CHAPTER XXV

The small, moss-covered clearing under the beeches proved to be an

ideal retreat--a place good for the soul longing for isolation--a

refuge for those desiring to escape from the insistent call of the

obstinate present.

The sloping ground, soft and furry like a carpet, invited relaxation.

The book seemed clever and promising--but somehow she could not

concentrate her attention on its pages; her mind would wander off

aimlessly. She began to muse, and the volume slid on to the moss.

This life she was living--was it really to be her life always? This

wonderful land had opened up to her new vistas and new experiences. The

people were, oh, so kind and good to her. It was all very interesting

and no doubt worthy the efforts. But was this the land for her--for

her, the last of her race?

She had been so enthusiastic in the morning. She had been looking

forward to this little vacation for many days; and now, when it had

come, when everything was just as she had wished it to be, she was not

happy!

What had become of her dreams of intimate exchange of noble thoughts

with dear friends? Where were her romantic fancies of a world of love,

of glory and poetry? She knew not what these dreams and fancies might

actually be, but she was sure they were not being realized now. Was

her life’s horizon to be landlocked as was this rural home? Was her

life’s goal to reach no farther than the making of pretty bonnets

for strangers? Was this to be her ideal? Certainly she had found a

freedom from one kind of bondage, but had she not obtained it only to

find herself bound by far more cruel fetters--the drudgery of a life

occupied in gaining a livelihood and losing its soul?

Would she be compelled to point to this as her only achievement? And

what would Mr. Morton say when her hour of reckoning came with him?

“And it was for this--that you disobeyed your father’s wishes, and

gave me unspeakable pain!” Had she pained him? Had she disregarded her

father’s injunctions? Oh--if she could but be enlightened on these

doubts, these ever recurring questions!

She sat meditating, lost to her surroundings while the busy

bees hummed and the flies buzzed about her. A slender catbird,

smooth and droll like a dainty squirrel, its bright beetle eyes

turned inquisitively upon the intruder, slipped in and out of the

underbrush--“Peep”--“Peep”--its mate joined in the sport,--“Peep,” and

they were gone. Little kinglets with their wine-colored caps flitted

from branch to branch, chirruping in sweet confidence. A subdued whirr

drew Helène’s eyes idly to a tall plant swaying in blossom in the

glaring sunshine; above it was the most exquisite of little creatures

floating in a haze produced by the rapid motion of its delicate wings,

its thread-like bill seemingly resting within the flower. Whirr--it had

vanished!

Was this an enchanted glade or a fairy’s retreat?

Yes--even if she had done wrong in running away, she had learned

to know something of life, life as it was to the vast majority of

humankind. She had come to know this great Western world--his own land.

Surely he could not but approve--he----

An aggressive noise, resembling the sound of scissors being ground on a

whetstone, piercing and disturbing, broke her reveries. Helène sat up

staring into the leafy tangle which screened her refuge. What could

it be? There it was again. It was only a locust, had Helène but known

it, but its arrival had broken the spell; her retreat became once more

but the hot, sweltering clearing; the buzzing of the flies became an

annoyance, the bees a threat. She was again alone--a stranger among a

strange people.

Oh, no--not alone! There was always her good Margy. No one could take

her from her. And there were her own thoughts and memories. No one

could steal them from her. And--autumn would soon be here--the day of

reckoning and, perhaps, the day of promise, also--the day when her

letter must be written and sent. But her first duty was to Margaret.

She must help her dear friend and protector to get well. As soon as

they were again settled at home, she surely would set to work on the

letter. And an inward voice whispered to her: “my knight without

blemish.” She rose and smoothed out her crumpled dress to cover her

self-confusion at the unspoken words.

Carefully picking her way through the tall weeds and brush she gained

the road. Glancing for a moment towards the house she saw no one about;

but the next instant her attention was drawn to a distant cloud of

dust and the sound of the regular hoof-beats of horses. A carriage

was approaching, and soon it drew up before the gate of the Post’s

farm-house. Hesitating what she should do, she saw a man alight, but,

instead of going up to the house, he turned and made straight to where

she was standing.

As he approached nearer she recognized Mr. Van Dusen. Her indecision

died in its inception. Hat in one hand and the other extended cordially

he called out:

“How are you, Miss Barton? I am so glad to see you. What good fairy

brought you here?”

Somewhat embarrassed, she permitted him to take her hand, and press it

lightly. He felt rather than saw her indifference. “You are not pleased

to see me, Miss Barton?” he added with a weak smile. “But never mind,

since I am here, may I walk with you?”

“Y-e-s, Mr. Van Dusen. Miss Fisher is resting--the doctor’s orders, you

know--but it is almost time for her to waken. Do you wish to see her?”

“Ah, Miss Barton, I am not going to let you get rid of me in that way.

Let Miss Fisher have her full allowance of sleep; my message to her can

wait. Mother sent me to invite her and you for a drive around the lakes

to-morrow. The country is looking so beautiful, she thought you would

enjoy the water and the hotels along the shore. But may I be frank?

I agreed to be her messenger because I had heard you were expected

to-day. Now, please, Miss Barton, don’t look so forbidding. I do so

want to speak to you.”

Helène made a motion as if about to step back, a slight blush suffusing

her cheek and neck. Courteously bowing her proud little head she said

in somewhat staccato tones:

“Very well, Mr. Van Dusen; but I really think we ought both of us go in

to Miss Fisher. I am her guest, you know.”

“I know, Miss Barton, but let me have my way, won’t you? This place,

these woods, fields and lakes,” he added with a wave of his arm,

“have been my playground ever since I was a boy. I know every nook

and corner. You are not alone Miss Fisher’s guest but the guest of us

all who live here and love this secluded corner of Jersey. Do let me

be your guide and show you around.” His humorous eyes gave his face

so whimsical an expression that Helène almost regretted her coldness

towards him.

“Have you seen the orchard and the enchanted bower of Kittanah, the

Indian Maiden who dwelt here more than two hundred years ago? No? It’s

right round the bend of this road, less than a minute’s walk, and

really well worth a visit. Shall we go?”

His playful insistence and her own desire to efface the impression of

her cool reception of him conquered her indecision. She turned with him

along the road to where the orchard was situated.

Gnarled old fruit trees laden with red, green and speckled apples, deep

grass that clung to ankles, weeds of unusual size and luxuriance, and

all against a dense clump of birches as background.

Within these birches were flat boulders covered with lichen and small

tufts of living green--“The Indian bower, Miss Barton; behold the

throne of Kittanah!”

It was a pretty spot, and Helène felt no regret that she had come. Van

Dusen drew out his handkerchief, spread it carefully over the rock and

invited his companion to sit down. “You must let me see how a white

maiden would appear upon the throne of her ancient copper-colored

sister.”

Helène smilingly obeyed, and the young man stepped back in mock

criticism, nodding approval.

“Miss Barton, tradition tells that this Indian maiden outrivalled in

beauty all the other girls of her age and place. But I think--there

never sat upon this rock a more beautiful girl than she who is sitting

there now.”

Helène rose. The very thing she had dreaded was going to happen. She

had been very foolish to come to this place.

“Miss Barton, please sit down.”

Hardly knowing what she was doing, Helène resumed her seat, helplessly.

Van Dusen came close up to her, the smile gone from his face, and in

its place an expression of grim determination.

“Miss Barton, ever since I first met you I have had but one thought--to

win you if I could. I know you have given me no encouragement; indeed,

I believe you have avoided me. Yet, I still beg of you to permit me to

plead my cause.”

Helène, with downcast eyes, sat patiently, her hands folded, a troubled

expression on her face.

“I don’t amount to much, I know, but I am a pretty clean fellow and I

am awfully fond of you. Won’t you give me a chance to show you how in

earnest I am? To see more of you? There isn’t another girl like you

in this world. I know there are lots of fellows much better than I,

but--do give me a chance!”

As he spoke the last words he took Helène’s hand, his eager face

flushed with his emotions. She gently drew it away, and looking up

piteously at the young man she mustered just enough strength to

say sadly: “Mr. Van Dusen--I don’t know what to say, and if I did

I wouldn’t know how to say it. You are very kind. I--I have never

thought of any man as you wish me to think of you. We ought not

to have come here; we should both of us then have been saved this

great embarrassment. Please, remember, that I have no one but Miss

Fisher--that I am her only friend. Shall we return to the house?”

“Miss Barton, Helen dear, will you not give me some encouragement, some

hope----”

“Oh, Mr. Van Dusen--what can I say? Really, I must not listen to you

any longer. Pray, permit me!”

Her heart in a riotous beating, her temples throbbing and her face

filled with indignation, Helène rose and ran toward the orchard. And as

she ran she kept thinking: he had no right to speak to her thus: Margy

would have to tell him that he must not visit them again. Her feet

became entangled in the deep grass and treacherous brambles, and she

was compelled to walk and pick her way.

Van Dusen, who had followed her at a quick pace, hurt and offended at

he knew not what, was the first to break the awkward silence following

on the precipitate flight.

“Don’t be angry with me, Miss Barton. I did not mean to hurt your

feelings. I can see I am distasteful to you; but you need have no

fear.” He paused for breath. Then seeing that she was finding it

difficult to get over the brambles, he added in an unconscious _non

sequitur_: “Pardon me, if you don’t keep to the path you will tear your

shoes and skirt. You are getting into a patch of low bush blackberries;

they are worse than barbed wire.”

Helène stopped short, her sense of humor overcoming her. After all

the young man had not done anything very grievous! Of course, it was

absurd, but he meant well and she had been wrong to be indignant with

him.

She turned to Van Dusen, and the smile which met him was like a ray

of sunshine breaking through threatening clouds. “Mr. Van Dusen--I am

sorry. It was rude of me to run away. I was taken unawares. Please

pardon me. You may show me the path. I can’t afford to ruin my shoes

and spoil my vacation. But you must promise me not to refer to the

subject again. Will you promise, Mr. Van Dusen?”

“Miss Barton, I may not be a genius but nobody can say I don’t know

when I am not wanted. I apologize,” he added in a more earnest and

subdued voice, “and let us be friends. I guess I am not good enough for

you!”

“No, Mr. Van Dusen, you are unjust to yourself. You are a gentleman and

you have been very kind to me. But--oh, well, I suppose I am foolish.

Let us go back to Miss Fisher.”

Van Dusen, silent and depressed, led the way back along the path over

the hard-baked field, through the orchard and into the road. Helène

spoke not another word all the way.