“So much the more need of me to make that little while happy. Think how
much he has suffered and done for others; surely I may do something for
him. Oh, Nell, can I let him die alone and in exile, when I have both
heart and home to give him?”
Helen could say no more; she kissed and comforted the faithful little
soul, feeling all the while such sympathy and tenderness that she
wondered at herself, for with this interest in the love of another came
a sad sense of loneliness, as if she was denied the sweet experience
that every woman longs to know.
Amy never could remain long under a cloud, and seeing Helen’s tears,
began to cheer both her cousin and herself.
“Hoffman said he might live with care, don’t you remember? and Hoffman
knows the case better than we. Let us ask him if Casimer is worse. You
do it; I can’t without betraying myself.”
“I will,” and Helen felt grateful for any pretext to address a friendly
word to Karl, who had looked sad of late, and had been less with them
since the major became absorbed in Mrs. Cumberland.
Leaving Amy to compose herself, Helen went away to find Hoffman. It was
never difficult, for he seemed to divine her wishes and appear uncalled
the moment he was wanted. Hardly had she reached her favorite nook in
the garden when he approached with letters, and asked with respectful
anxiety, as she glanced at and threw them by with an impatient sigh,—
“Has mademoiselle any orders? Will the ladies drive, sail, or make a
little expedition? It is fine, and mademoiselle looks as if the air
would refresh her. Pardon that I make the suggestion.”
“No, Hoffman, I don’t like the air of this place, and intend to leave as
soon as possible.” And Helen knit her delicate dark brows with an
expression of great determination. “Switzerland is the refuge of
political exiles, and I hate plots and disguises; I feel oppressed by
some mystery, and mean to solve or break away from it at once.”
She stopped abruptly, longing to ask his help, yet withheld by a sudden
sense of shyness in approaching the subject, though she had decided to
speak to Karl of the Pole.
“Can I serve you, mademoiselle? If so, pray command me,” he said,
eagerly, coming a step nearer.
“You can, and I intend to ask your advice, for there can be nothing
amiss in doing so, since you are a friend of Casimer’s.”
“I am both friend and confidant, mademoiselle,” he answered, as if
anxious to let her understand that he knew all, without the
embarrassment of words. She looked up quickly, relieved, yet troubled.
“He has told you, then?”
“Everything, mademoiselle. Pardon me if this afflicts you; I am his only
friend here, and the poor lad sorely needed comfort.”
“He did. I am not annoyed; I am glad, for I know you will sustain him.
Now I may speak freely, and be equally frank. Please tell me if he is
indeed fatally ill?”
“It was thought so some months ago; now I hope. Happiness cures many
ills, and since he has loved, he has improved. I always thought care
would save him; he is worth it.”
Hoffman paused, as if fearful of venturing too far; but Helen seemed to
confide freely in him, and said, softly,—
“Ah, if it were only wise to let him be happy. It is so bitter to deny
love.”
“God knows it is!”
The exclamation broke from Hoffman as if an irrepressible impulse wrung
it from him.
Helen started, and for a moment neither spoke. She collected herself
soonest, and without turning, said, quietly,—
“I have been troubled by a strong impression that Casimer is not what he
seems. Till he denied it on his honor I believed him to be Baron
Palsdorf. Did he speak the truth when he said he was not?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Then, Casimer Teblinski is his real name?”
No answer.