“UNCLE, can I speak to you a moment?” said Helen, very gravely, as they
left the breakfast-room next morning.
“Not now, my dear, I’m busy,” was the hasty reply, as the major shawled
Mrs. Cumberland for an early promenade.
Helen knit her brows irefully, for this answer had been given her half a
dozen times lately when she asked for an interview. It was evident he
wished to avoid all lectures, remonstrances, and explanations; and it
was also evident that he was in love with the widow.
“Lovers are worse than lunatics to manage, so it is vain to try to get
any help from him,” sighed Helen, adding, as her uncle was gallantly
leading his stout divinity away into the garden: “Amy has a bad
headache, and I shall stay to take care of her, so we can’t join your
party to Chillon, sir. We have been there once, so you needn’t postpone
it for us.”
“Very well, my dear,” and the major walked away, looking much relieved.
As Helen was about to leave the _salon_ Casimer appeared. A single
glance at her face assured him that she knew all, and instantly assuming
a confiding, persuasive air that was irresistible, he said, meekly,—
“Mademoiselle, I do not deserve a word from you, but it desolates me to
know that I have grieved the little angel who is too dear to me. For her
sake, pardon that I spoke my heart in spite of prudence, and permit me
to send her this.”
Helen glanced from the flowers he held to his beseeching face, and her
own softened. He looked so penitent and anxious, she had not the heart
to reproach him.
“I will forgive you and carry your gift to Amy on one condition,” she
said, gravely.
“Ah, you are kind! Name, then, the condition, I implore you, and I will
agree.”
“Tell me, then, on your honor as a gentleman, are you not Baron
Palsdorf?”
“On my honor as a gentleman, I swear to you I am not.”
“Are you, in truth, what you profess to be?”
“I am, in truth, Amy’s lover, your devoted servant, and a most unhappy
man, with but a little while to live. Believe this and pity me, dearest
Mademoiselle Helène.”
She did pity him, her eyes betrayed that, and her voice was very kind,
as she said,—
“Pardon my doubts. I trust you now, and wish with all my heart that it
was possible to make you happy. You know it is not, therefore I am sure
you will be wise and generous, and spare Amy further grief by avoiding
her for the little time we stay. Promise me this, Casimer.”
“I may see her if I am dumb? Do not deny me this. I will not speak, but
I must look at my little and dear angel when she is near.”
He pleaded so ardently with lips and hands, and eager eyes, that Helen
could not deny him, and when he had poured out his thanks she left him,
feeling very tender toward the unhappy young lover, whose passion was so
hopeless, yet so warm.
Amy was at breakfast in her room, sobbing and sipping, moaning and
munching, for, though her grief was great, her appetite was good, and
she was in no mood to see anything comical in cracking eggshells while
she bewailed her broken heart, or in eating honey in the act of
lamenting the bitterness of her fate.
Casimer would have become desperate had he seen her in the little blue
wrapper, with her bright hair loose on her shoulders, and her pretty
face wet with tears, as she dropped her spoon to seize his
flowers,—three dewy roses, one a bud, one half and the other fully
blown, making a fragrant record and avowal of the love which she must
renounce.
“Oh, my dear boy! how can I give him up, when he is so fond, and I am
all he has? Helen, uncle must let me write or go to mamma. She shall
decide; I can’t; and no one else has a right to part us,” sobbed Amy,
over her roses.
“Casimer will not marry, dear; he is too generous to ask such a
sacrifice,” began Helen, but Amy cried indignantly,—
“It is no sacrifice; I’m rich. What do I care for his poverty?”
“His religion!” hinted Helen, anxiously.
“It need not part us; we can believe what we will. He is good; why mind
whether he is Catholic or Protestant.”
“But a Pole, Amy, so different in tastes, habits, character, and
beliefs. It is a great risk to marry a foreigner; races are so unlike.”
“I don’t care if he is a Tartar, a Calmuck, or any of the other wild
tribes; I love him, he loves me, and no one need object if I don’t.”
“But, dear, the great and sad objection still remains—his health. He
just said he had but a little while to live.”