FOUR weeks went by so rapidly that every one refused to believe it when
the major stated the fact at the breakfast-table, for all had enjoyed
themselves so heartily that they had been unconscious of the lapse of
time.
“You are not going away, uncle?” cried Amy, with a panic-stricken look.
“Next week, my dear; we must be off, for we’ve much to do yet, and I
promised mamma to bring you back by the end of October.”
“Never mind Paris and the rest of it; this is pleasanter. I’d rather
stay here—”
There Amy checked herself and tried to hide her face behind her
coffee-cup, for Casimer looked up in a way that made her heart flutter
and her cheeks burn.
“Sorry for it, Amy; but go we must, so enjoy your last week with all
your might, and come again next year.”
“It will never be again what it is now,” sighed Amy; and Casimer echoed
the words “next year,” as if sadly wondering if the present year would
not be his last.
Helen rose silently and went into the garden, for of late she had fallen
into the way of reading and working in the little pavilion which stood
in an angle of the wall, overlooking lake and mountains.
A seat at the opposite end of the walk was Amy’s haunt, for she liked
the sun, and within a week or two something like constraint had existed
between the cousins. Each seemed happier apart, and each was intent on
her own affairs. Helen watched over Amy’s health, but no longer offered
advice or asked confidence. She often looked anxious, and once or twice
urged the major to go, as if conscious of some danger.
But the worthy man seemed to have been bewitched as well as the young
folks, and was quite happy sitting by the plump, placid widow, or
leisurely walking with her to the chapel on the hillside.
All seemed waiting for something to break up the party, and no one had
the courage to do it. The major’s decision took every one by surprise,
and Amy and Casimer looked as if they had fallen from the clouds.
The persistency with which the English lessons had gone on was amazing,
for Amy usually tired of everything in a day or two. Now, however, she
was a devoted teacher, and her pupil did her great credit by the
rapidity with which he caught the language. It looked like pleasant
play, sitting among the roses day after day, Amy affecting to embroider
while she taught, Casimer marching to and fro on the wide, low wall,
below which lay the lake, while he learned his lesson; then standing
before her to recite, or lounging on the turf in frequent fits of
idleness, both talking and laughing a great deal, and generally
forgetting everything but the pleasure of being together. They wrote
little notes as exercises—Amy in French, Casimer in English, and each
corrected the other’s.
All very well for a time; but as the notes increased the corrections
decreased, and at last nothing was said of ungrammatical French or
comical English, and the little notes were exchanged in silence.
As Amy took her place that day she looked forlorn, and when her pupil
came her only welcome was a reproachful—
“You are very late, sir.”
“It is fifteen of minutes yet to ten clocks,” was Casimer’s reply, in
his best English.
“Ten o’clock, and leave out ‘of’ before minutes. How many times must I
tell you that?” said Amy, severely, to cover her first mistake.
“Ah, not many times; soon all goes to finish, and I have none person to
make this charming English go in my so stupide head.”
“What will you do then?”
“I _jeter_ myself into the lake.”
“Don’t be foolish; I’m dull to-day, and want to be cheered up; suicide
isn’t a pleasant subject.”
“Good! See here, then—a little _plaisanterie_—what you call joke. Can
you will to see it?” and he laid a little pink cocked-hat note on her
lap, looking like a mischievous boy as he did so.
“‘Mon Casimer Teblinski;’ I see no joke;” and Amy was about to tear it
up, when he caught it from destruction, and holding it out of reach,
said, laughing wickedly,—
“The ‘mon’ is one abbreviation of ‘monsieur,’ but you put no little—how
do you say?—period at the end of him; it goes now in English—‘_My_
Casimer Teblinski,’ and that is of the most charming address.”
Amy colored, but had her return shot ready.
“Don’t exult; that was only an oversight, not a deliberate deception
like that you put upon me. It was very wrong and rude, and I shall not
forgive it.”
“_Mon Dieu!_ where have I gone in sinning? I am a _polisson_, as I say
each day, but not a villain, I swear to you. Say to me that which I have
made of wrong, and I will do penance.”
“You told me ‘_Ma drogha_’ was the Polish for ‘My pupil,’ and let me
call you so a long time; I am wiser now,” replied Amy, with great
dignity.
“Who has said stupidities to you, that you doubt me?” and Casimer
assumed an injured look, though his eyes danced with merriment.
“I heard Hoffman singing a Polish song to little Roserl, the burden of
which was, ‘_Ma drogha, Ma drogha_,’ and when I asked him to translate
it, those two words meant, ‘My darling.’ How dare you do it, ungrateful
creature that you are!”
As Amy spoke, half-confusedly, half-angrily, Casimer went down upon his
knees, with folded hands and penitent face, exclaiming, in good
English,—
“Be merciful to me a sinner. I was tempted, and I could not resist.”
“Get up this instant, and stop laughing. Say your lesson, for this will
be your last,” was the stern reply, though Amy’s face dimpled all over
with suppressed merriment.
He rose meekly, but made such sad work with the verb “To love,” that his
teacher was glad to put an end to it, by proposing to read her French to
him. It was “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” a musty little translation which she
had found in the house, and begun for her own amusement. Casimer read a
little, seemed interested, and suggested that they read it together, so
that he might correct her accent. Amy agreed, and they were in the heart
of the sentimental romance, finding it more interesting than most modern
readers, for the girl had an improved Thaddeus before her, and the Pole
a fairer, kinder Mary Beaufort.
Dangerous times for both, but therein lay the charm; for, though Amy
said to herself each night, “Sick, Catholic, and a foreigner,—it can
never be,” yet each morning she felt, with increasing force, how blank
her day would be without him. And Casimer, honorably restraining every
word of love, yet looked volumes, and in spite of the glasses, the girl
felt the eloquence of the fine eyes they could not entirely conceal.
To-day, as she read, he listened with his head leaning on his hand, and
though she never had read worse, he made no correction, but sat so
motionless, she fancied at last that he had actually fallen asleep.
Thinking to rouse him, she said, in French,—
“Poor Thaddeus! don’t you pity him?—alone, poor, sick, and afraid to own
his love.”
“No, I hate him, the absurd imbecile, with his fine boots and plumes,
and tragedy airs. He was not to be pitied, for he recovered health, he
found a fortune, he won his Marie. His sufferings were nothing; there
was no fatal blight on him, and he had time and power to conquer his
misfortunes, while I—”
Casimer spoke with sudden passion, and pausing abruptly, turned his face
away, as if to hide some emotion he was too proud to show.
Amy’s heart ached, and her eyes filled, but her voice was sweet and
steady, as she said, putting by the book, like one weary of it,—
“Are you suffering to-day? Can we do anything for you? Please let us, if
we may.”
“You give me all I can receive; no one can help my pain yet; but a time
will come when something may be done for me; then I will speak.”
And, to her great surprise, he rose and left her, without another word.
She saw him no more till evening; then he looked excited, played
stormily, and would sing in defiance of danger. The trouble in Amy’s
face seemed reflected in Helen’s, though not a word had passed between
them. She kept her eye on Casimer, with an intentness that worried Amy,
and even when he was at the instrument Helen stood near him, as if
fascinated, watching the slender hands chase one another up and down the
keys with untiring strength and skill.
Suddenly she left the room and did not return. Amy was so nervous by
that time, she could restrain herself no longer, and slipping out, found
her cousin in their chamber, poring over a glove.
“Oh, Nell, what is it? You are so odd to-night I can’t understand you.
The music excites me, and I’m miserable, and I want to know what has
happened,” she said, tearfully.
“I’ve found him!” whispered Helen, eagerly, holding up the glove with a
gesture of triumph.
“Who?” asked Amy, blinded by her tears.
“The baron.”
“Where?—when?” cried the girl, amazed.
“Here, and now.”
“Don’t take my breath away; tell me quick, or I shall get hysterical.”
“Casimer is Sigismund Palsdorf, and no more a Pole than I am,” was
Helen’s answer.
Amy dropped in a heap on the floor, not fainting, but so amazed she had
neither strength nor breath left. Sitting by her, Helen rapidly went
on,—
“I had a feeling as if something was wrong, and began to watch. The
feeling grew, but I discovered nothing till to-day. It will make you
laugh, it was so unromantic. As I looked over uncle’s things when the
laundress brought them this afternoon, I found a collar that was not
his. It was marked ‘S. P.,’ and I at once felt a great desire to know
who owned it. The woman was waiting for her money, and I asked her.
‘Monsieur Pologne,’ she said, for his name is too much for her. She took
it into his room, and that was the end of it.”
“But it may be another name; the initials only a coincidence,” faltered
Amy, looking frightened.
“No, dear, it isn’t; there is more to come. Little Roserl came crying
through the hall an hour ago, and I asked what the trouble was. She
showed me a prettily-bound prayer-book which she had taken from the
Pole’s room to play with, and had been ordered by her mother to carry
back. I looked into it; no name, but the same coat-of-arms as the glove
and the handkerchief. To-night as he played I examined his hands; they
are peculiar, and some of the peculiarities have left traces on the
glove. I am sure it is he, for on looking back many things confirm the
idea. He says he is a _polisson_, a rogue, fond of jokes, and clever at
playing them. The Germans are famous for masquerading and practical
jokes; this is one, I am sure, and uncle will be terribly angry if he
discovers it.”
“But why all this concealment?” cried Amy. “Why play jokes on us? You
look so worried I know you have not told me all you know or fear.”
“I confess I do fear that these men are political plotters as well as
exiles. There are many such, and they make tools of rich and ignorant
foreigners to further their ends. Uncle is rich, generous, and
unsuspicious; and I fear that while apparently serving and enjoying us
they are using him.”
“Heavens, it may be! and that would account for the change we see in
him. I thought he was in love with the widow, but that may be only a
cloak to hide darker designs. Karl brought us here, and I dare say it is
a den of conspirators!” cried Amy, feeling as if she were getting more
of an adventure than she had bargained for.
“Don’t be alarmed! I am on the watch, and mean to demand an explanation
from uncle, or take you away on my own responsibility, if I can.”
Here a maid tapped to say that tea was served.
“We must go down, or some one will suspect trouble. Plead headache to
excuse your paleness, and I’ll keep people away. We will manage the
affair and be off as soon as possible,” said Helen, as Amy followed her,
too bewildered to answer.
Casimer was not in the room, the major and Mrs. Cumberland were sipping
tea side by side, and the professors roaming vaguely about. To leave Amy
in peace, Helen engaged them both in a lively chat, and her cousin sat
by the window trying to collect her thoughts. Some one was pacing up and
down the garden, hatless, in the dew.
Amy forgot everything but the danger of such exposure to her reckless
friend. His cloak and hat lay on a chair; she caught them up and glided
unperceived from the long window.
“You are so imprudent I fear for you, and bring your things,” said a
timid voice, as the little white figure approached the tall black one,
striding down the path tempestuously.
“You to think of me, forgetful of yourself! Little angel of kindness,
why do you take such care of me?” cried Casimer, eagerly taking not only
the cloak, but the hands that held it.
“I pitied you because you were ill and lonely. You do not deserve my
pity, but I forgive that, and would not see you suffer,” was the
reproachful answer, as Amy turned away.