“It is not.”
“You are not the baron?” cried Amy.
“No; I will swear it if you wish.”
“Who, then, are you?”
“Shall I confess?”
“Yes, I entreat you.”
“Remember, you command me to speak.”
“I do. Who are you?”
“Your lover.”
The words were breathed into her ear as softly as ardently, but they
startled her so much she could find no reply, and, throwing himself down
before her, Casimer poured out his passion with an impetuosity that held
her breathless.
“Yes, I love you, and I tell it, vain and dishonorable as it is in one
like me. I try to hide it. I say ‘it cannot be.’ I plan to go away. But
you keep me; you are angel-good to me; you take my heart, you care for
me, teach me, pity me, and I can only love and die. I know it is folly;
I ask nothing; I pray to God to bless you always, and I say, Go, go,
before it is too late for you, as now for me!”
“Yes, I must go—it is all wrong. Forgive me. I have been very selfish.
Oh, forget me and be happy,” faltered Amy, feeling that her only safety
was in flight.
“Go! go!” he cried, in a heart-broken tone, yet still kissed and clung
to her hands till she tore them away and fled into the house.
Helen missed her soon after she went, but could not follow for several
minutes; then went to their chamber and there found Amy drowned in
tears, and terribly agitated.
Soon the story was told with sobs and moans, and despairing lamentations
fit to touch a heart of stone.
“I do love him—oh, I do; but I didn’t know it till he was so unhappy,
and now I’ve done this dreadful harm. He’ll die, and I can’t help him,
see him, or be anything to him. Oh, I’ve been a wicked, wicked girl, and
never can be happy any more.”
Angry, perplexed, and conscience-stricken, for what now seemed blind and
unwise submission to the major, Helen devoted herself to calming Amy,
and when at last the poor, broken-hearted little soul fell asleep in her
arms, she pondered half the night upon the still unsolved enigma of the
Baron Sigismund.
* * * * *