THE excitement and suspense of the major and Amy can be imagined when
news of the accident reached them. Their gratitude and relief were
intense when Helen appeared next morning, with the faithful Hoffman
still at his post, though no longer able to disguise the fact that he
was suffering from his wound.
When the story had been told, Karl was put under the surgeon’s care, and
all remained at Heidelberg for several days to rest and recover.
On the afternoon of the last day the major and young ladies drove off to
the castle for a farewell view. Helen began to sketch the great stone
lion’s head above the grand terrace, the major smoked and chatted with a
party of English artists whom he had met, and Amy, with a little lad for
a guide, explored the old castle to her heart’s content.
The sun set, and twilight began to fall when Helen put up her pencils,
and the major set off to find Amy, who had been appearing and
disappearing in every nook and cranny of the half-ruined castle.
Nowhere could he find her, and no voice answered when he called. The
other visitors were gone, and the place seemed deserted, except by
themselves and the old man who showed the ruins.
Becoming alarmed lest the girl had fallen somewhere, or lost her way
among the vaults where the famous Tun lies, the major called out old
Hans with his lantern, and searched high and low.
Amy’s hat, full of flowers and ferns, was found in the Lady’s Walk, as
the little terrace is called, but no other trace appeared, and Helen
hurried to and fro in great distress, fearing all manner of dangers.
Meanwhile Amy, having explored every other part of the castle, went to
take another look at the Tun, the dwarf, and the vaults.
Now little Anderl, her guide, had a great fear of ghosts, and legions
were said to haunt the ruins after nightfall, so when Amy rambled on
deeper and deeper into the gloom the boy’s courage ebbed away with every
step; yet he was ashamed to own his fear, seeing that she had none.
Amy wanted to see a certain cell, where a nun was said to have pined to
death because she would not listen to the Margraf’s love. The legend
pleased the romantic girl, and forgetful of waning daylight, gathering
damps, and Anderl’s reluctant service, she ran on, up steps and down,
delighted with little arched doors, rusty chains on the walls, glimpses
of sky through shattered roofs, and all manner of mysterious nooks and
corners. Coming at last to a narrow cell, with a stone table, and heavy
bolts on the old door, she felt sure this was poor Elfrida’s prison, and
called Anderl to come on with his candle, for the boy had lighted one,
for his own comfort rather than hers. Her call was unanswered, and
glancing back, she saw the candle placed on the ground, but no Anderl.
“Little coward, he has run away,” she said, laughing; and having
satisfied her curiosity, turned to retrace her steps,—no easy task to
one ignorant of the way, for vault after vault opened on both sides, and
no path was discernible. In vain she tried to recall some landmark, the
gloom had deepened and nothing was clear. On she hurried, but found no
opening, and really frightened, stopped at last, calling the boy in a
voice that woke a hundred echoes. But Anderl had fled home, thinking the
lady would find her way back, and preferring to lose his kreutzers to
seeing a ghost.
Poor Amy’s bewilderment and alarm increased with every moment’s delay,
and hoping to come out somewhere, she ran on till a misstep jostled the
candle from her hand and extinguished it.
Left in the dark, her courage deserted her, and she screamed
desperately, like a lost child, and was fast getting into a state of
frantic terror, when the sound of an approaching step reassured her.
Holding her breath, she heard a quick tread drawing nearer, as if guided
by her cries, and, straining her eyes, she caught the outline of a man’s
figure in the gloom.
A sensation of intense joy rushed over her, and she was about to spring
forward, when she remembered that as she could speak no German how could
she explain her plight to the stranger, if he understand neither French
nor English?
Fear took possession of her at the thought of meeting some rough
peasant, or some rollicking student, to whom she could make no
intelligible appeal or explanation.
Crouching close against the wall, she stood mute till the figure was
very near. She was in the shadow of an angle, and the man paused, as if
looking for the person who called for help.
“Who is lost here?” said a clear voice, in German.
Amy shrunk closer to the wall, fearing to speak, for the voice was that
of a young man, and a low laugh followed the words, as if the speaker
found the situation amusing.
“Mortal, ghost or devil, I’ll find it,” exclaimed the voice, and
stepping forward, a hand groped for and found her.
“Lottchen, is it thou? Little rogue, thou shalt pay dearly for leading
me such a chase.”
As he spoke he drew the girl toward him, but with a faint cry, a vain
effort to escape, Amy’s terror reached its climax, and spent with
fatigue and excitement, she lost consciousness.
“Who the deuce is it, then? Lottchen never faints on a frolic. Some poor
little girl lost in earnest. I must get her out of this gloomy place at
once, and find her party afterward.”
Lifting the slight figure in his arms, the young man hurried on, and
soon came out through a shattered gateway into the shrubbery which
surrounds the base of the castle.
Laying her on the grass, he gently chafed her hands, eying the pale,
pretty face meantime with the utmost solicitude.
At his first glimpse of it he had started, smiled and made a gesture of
pleasure and surprise, then gave himself entirely to the task of
recovering the poor girl whom he had frightened out of her senses.
Very soon she looked up with dizzy eyes, and clasping her hands
imploringly, cried, in English, like a bewildered child,—
“I am lost! Oh, take me to my uncle.”
“I will, the moment you can walk. Upon my soul, I meant to help you when
I followed; but as you did not answer, I fancied it was Lottchen, the
keeper’s little girl. Pardon the fright I’ve caused you, and let me take
you to your friends.”
The true English accent of the words, and the hearty tone of sincerity
in the apology, reassured Amy at once, and, rising, she said, with a
faint smile and a petulant tone,—
“I was very silly, but my guide ran away, my candle went out, I lost the
path, and can speak no German; so I was afraid to answer you at first;
and then I lost my wits altogether, for it’s rather startling to be
clutched in the dark, sir.”
“Indeed it is. I was very thoughtless, but now let me atone for it.
Where is your uncle, Miss Erskine?” asked the stranger, with respectful
earnestness.
“You know my name?” cried Amy in her impulsive way.
“I have that happiness,” was the answer, with a smile.
“But I don’t know _you_, sir;” and she peered at him, trying to see his
face in the darkness, for the copse was thick, and twilight had come on
rapidly.
“Not yet; I live in hope. Shall we go? Your uncle will be uneasy.”
“Where are we?” asked Amy, glad to move on, for the interview was
becoming too personal even for her, and the stranger’s manner fluttered
her, though she enjoyed the romance of the adventure immensely.
“We are in the park which surrounds the castle. You were near the
entrance to it from the vaults when you fainted.”
“I wish I had kept on a little longer, and not disgraced myself by such
a panic.”
“Nay, that is a cruel wish, for then I should have lost the happiness of
helping you.”
They had been walking side by side, but here were forced to pause on
reaching a broken flight of steps, for Amy could not see the way before
her.
“Let me lead you; it is steep and dark, but better than going a long way
round through the dew,” he said, offering his hand.
“Must we return by these dreadful vaults?” faltered Amy, shrinking back.
“It is the shortest and safest route, I assure you.”
“Are you sure you know the way?”
“Quite sure. I have lived here by the week together. Do you fear to
trust me?”
“No; but it is so dark, and everything is so strange to me. Can we get
down safely? I see nothing but a black pit.”
And Amy still hesitated, with an odd mixture of fear and coquetry.
“I brought you up in safety; shall I take you down again?” asked the
stranger, with a smile flickering over his face.
Amy felt rather than saw it, and assuming an air of dignified
displeasure, motioned him to proceed, which he did for three steps; then
Amy slipped, and gladly caught by the arm extended to save her.
Without a word he took her hand and led her back through the labyrinth
she had threaded in her bewilderment. A dim light filled the place, but
with unerring steps her guide went on till they emerged into the
courtyard.
Major Erskine’s voice was audible, giving directions to the keeper, and
Helen’s figure visible as she groped among the shadows of the ruined
chapel for her cousin.
“There are my friends. Now I am safe. Come and let them thank you,”
cried Amy, in her frank, childlike warmth of manner.
“I want no thanks—forgive me—adieu,” and hastily kissing the little hand
that had lain so confidingly in his, the stranger was gone.
Amy rushed at once to Helen, and when the lost lamb had been welcomed,
chidden, and exulted over, they drove home, listening to the very brief
account which Amy gave of her adventure.
“Naughty little gad-about, how could you go and terrify me so, wandering
in vaults with mysterious strangers, like the Countess of Rudolstadt.
You are as wet and dirty as if you had been digging a well, yet you look
as if you liked it,” said Helen, as she led Amy into their room at the
hotel.
“I do,” was the decided answer, as the girl pulled a handkerchief off
her head, and began to examine the corners of it. Suddenly she uttered a
cry and flew to the light, exclaiming,—
“Nell, Nell, look here! The same letters, ‘S. P.’, the same coat of
arms, the same perfume—it was the baron!”
“What? who? are you out of your mind?” said Helen, examining the large,
fine cambric handkerchief, with its delicately stamped initials under
the stag’s head, and three stars on a heart-shaped shield. “Where did
you get it?” she added, as she inhaled the soft odor of violets shaken
from its folds.
Amy blushed and answered shyly, “I didn’t tell you all that happened
before uncle, but now I will. My hat was left behind, and when I
recovered my wits after my fright, I found this tied over my head. Oh,
Nell, it was very charming there in that romantic old park, and going
through the vaults with him, and having my hand kissed at parting. No
one ever did that before, and I like it.”
Amy glanced at her hand as she spoke, and stood staring at it as if
struck dumb, for there on her forefinger shone a ring she had never seen
before.
“Look! look! mine is gone, and this in its place! Oh, Nell, what shall I
do?” she said, looking half frightened, half pleased.
Helen examined the ring and shook her head, for it was far more valuable
than the little pearl one which it replaced. Two tiny hands of finest
gold were linked together about a diamond of great brilliancy; and on
the inside appeared again the initials, “S. P.”
“How did it happen?” she asked, rather sternly.
“Upon my word, I don’t know, unless he put it on while I was stupidly
fainting. Rude man, to take advantage of me so. But, Nell, it is
splendid, and what shall I do about it?”
“Tell uncle, find out the man and send back his things. It really is
absurd, the manner in which German boys behave;” and Helen frowned,
though she was strongly tempted to laugh at the whole thing.
“He was neither a German nor a boy, but an English gentleman, I’m sure,”
began Amy, rather offended.
“But ‘S. P.’ is a baron, you know, unless there are two Richmonds in the
field,” broke in Helen.
“I forgot that; never mind, it deepens the mystery; and after this
performance, I’m prepared for any enormity. It’s my fate; I submit,”
said Amy, tragically, as she waved her pretty hand to and fro, pleased
with the flash of the ring.
“Amy, I think on the whole I won’t speak to uncle. He is quick to take
offence, especially where we are concerned. He doesn’t understand
foreign ways, and may get into trouble. We will manage it quietly
ourselves.”
“How, Nell?”
“Karl is discreet; we will merely say we found these things and wish to
discover the owner. He may know this ‘S. P.,’ and, having learned his
address, we can send them back. The man will understand; and as we leave
to-morrow, we shall be out of the way before he can play any new prank.”
“Have in Karl at once, for if I wear this lovely thing long I shall not
be able to let it go at all. How dared the creature take such a
liberty!” and Amy pulled off the ring with an expression of great scorn.
“Come into the _salon_ and see what Karl says to the matter. Let me
speak, or you will say too much. One must be prudent before—”
She was going to say “servants,” but checked herself, and substituted
“strangers,” remembering gratefully how much she owed this man.
Hoffman came, looking pale, and with his hand in a sling, but was as
gravely devoted as ever, and listened to Helen’s brief story with
serious attention.
“I will inquire, mademoiselle, and let you know at once. It is easy to
find persons if one has a clue. May I see the handkerchief?”
Helen showed it. He glanced at the initials, and laid it down with a
slight smile.
“The coat-of-arms is English, mademoiselle.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite so; I understand heraldry.”
“But the initials stand for Sigismund Palsdorf, and we know he is a
German baron,” broke in Amy, forgetting prudence in eagerness.
“If mademoiselle knows the name and title of this gentleman it will not
be hard to find him.”
“We only fancy it is the same because of the initials. I dare say it is
a mistake, and the man is English. Inquire quietly, Hoffman, if you
please, as this ring is of value, and I wish to restore it to its
owner,” said Helen, rather sharply.
“I shall do so, mademoiselle,” and with his gentlemanly bow, the courier
left the room.
“Bless me, what’s that?” cried Amy, a moment afterward, as a ringing
laugh echoed through the corridor,—a laugh so full of hearty and
infectious merriment that both girls smiled involuntarily, and Amy
peeped out to see who the blithe personage might be.
An old gentleman was entering his room near by, and Karl was just about
to descend the stairs. Both looked back at the girlish face peeping at
them, but both were quite grave, and the peal of laughter remained a
mystery, like all the rest of it.
Late in the evening Hoffman returned to report that a party of young
Englishmen had visited the castle that afternoon, and had left by the
evening train. One of them had been named Samuel Peters, and he,
doubtless, was the owner of the ring.
A humorous expression lurked in the courier’s eye as he made his report,
and heard Amy exclaim, in a tone of disgust and comical despair,—
“Samuel Peters! That spoils all the romance and dims the beauty of the
diamond. To think that a Peters should be the hero to whom I owe my
safety, and a Samuel should leave me this token of regard!”
“Hush, Amy,” whispered Helen. “Thanks, Hoffman; we must wait now for
chance to help us.”
* * * * *