“All this may be amusing to you, but it spoils my confidence in others
to know they wear masks. Is your name also false?”
“I am Karl Hoffman, as surely as the sun shines, mademoiselle. Do not
wound me by a doubt,” he said, eagerly.
“And nothing more?”
She smiled as she spoke, and glanced at his darkened skin with a shake
of the head.
“I dare not answer that.”
“No matter; I hate titles, and value people for their own worth, not for
their rank.”
Helen spoke impulsively, and, as if carried away by her words and
manner, Hoffman caught her hand and pressed his lips to it ardently,
dropped it, and was gone, as if fearing to trust himself a moment
longer.
Helen stood where he left her, thinking, with a shy glance from her hand
to the spot where he had stood,—
“It _is_ pleasant to have one’s hand kissed, as Amy said. Poor Karl, his
fate is almost as hard as Casimer’s.”
Some subtile power seemed to make the four young people shun one another
carefully, though all longed to be together. The major appeared to share
the secret disquiet that made the rest roam listlessly about, till
little Roserl came to invite them to a _fête_ in honor of the vintage.
All were glad to go, hoping in the novelty and excitement to recover
their composure.
The vineyard sloped up from the chateau, and on the hillside was a small
plateau of level sward, shadowed by a venerable oak now hung with
garlands, while underneath danced the chateau servants with their
families, to the music of a pipe played by little Freidel. As the
gentlefolk approached, the revel stopped, but the major, who was in an
antic mood and disposed to be gracious, bade Freidel play on, and as
Mrs. Cumberland refused his hand with a glance at her weeds, the major
turned to the Count’s buxom housekeeper, and besought her to waltz with
him. She assented, and away they went as nimbly as the best. Amy
laughed, but stopped to blush, as Casimer came up with an imploring
glance, and whispered,—
“Is it possible that I may enjoy one divine waltz with you before I go?”
Amy gave him her hand with a glad assent, and Helen was left alone.
Every one was dancing but herself and Hoffman, who stood near by,
apparently unconscious of the fact. He glanced covertly at her, and saw
that she was beating time with foot and hand, that her eyes shone, her
lips smiled. He seemed to take courage at this, for, walking straight up
to her, he said, as coolly as if a crown-prince,—
“Mademoiselle, may I have the honor?”
A flash of surprise passed over her face, but there was no anger, pride,
or hesitation in her manner, as she leaned toward him with a quiet
“Thanks, monsieur.”
A look of triumph was in his eyes as he swept her away to dance, as she
had never danced before, for a German waltz is full of life and spirit,
wonderfully captivating to English girls, and German gentlemen make it a
memorable experience when they please. As they circled round the rustic
ball-room, Hoffman never took his eyes off Helen’s, and, as if
fascinated, she looked up at him, half conscious that he was reading her
heart as she read his. He said not a word, but his face grew very
tender, very beautiful in her sight, as she forgot everything except
that he had saved her life and she loved him. When they paused, she was
breathless and pale; he also; and seating her he went away to bring her
a glass of wine. As her dizzy eyes grew clear, she saw a little case at
her feet, and taking it up, opened it. A worn paper, containing some
faded forget-me-nots and these words, fell out,—
“Gathered where Helen sat on the night of August 10th.”
There was just time to restore its contents to the case, when Hoffman
returned, saw it, and looked intensely annoyed as he asked, quickly,—
“Did you read the name on it?”
“I saw only the flowers;” and Helen colored beautifully as she spoke.
“And read _them_?” he asked, with a look she could not meet.
She was spared an answer, for just then a lad came up, saying, as he
offered a note,—
“Monsieur Hoffman, madame, at the hotel, sends you this, and begs you to
come at once.”
As he impatiently opened it, the wind blew the paper into Helen’s lap.
She restored it, and in the act, her quick eye caught the signature,
“Thine ever, Ludmilla.”
A slight shadow passed over her face, leaving it very cold and quiet.
Hoffman saw the change, and smiled, as if well pleased, but assuming
suddenly his usual manner, said deferentially,—
“Will mademoiselle permit me to visit my friend for an hour?—she is
expecting me.”
“Go, then, we do not need you,” was the brief reply, in a careless tone,
as if his absence was a thing of no interest to any one.
“Thanks; I shall not be long away;” and giving her a glance that made
her turn scarlet with anger at its undisguised admiration, he walked
away, humming gayly to himself Goethe’s lines,—
“Maiden’s heart and city’s wall
Were made to yield, were made to fall;
When we’ve held them each their day,
Soldier-like we march away.”
* * * * *