“I’ll bear them; but you are quite wrong, my dear, in your surmises, as
you will soon see. Helen is my ward, and accountable to me alone. Amy’s
mother gave her into my charge, and won’t reproach me for anything that
has passed when I explain matters. As to the lads they must take care of
themselves.”
Suddenly both girls colored, fluttered, and became intensely interested.
The major’s eyes twinkled as he assumed a perfectly impassive
expression, and rapidly delivered himself of the following thunderbolt,—
“Girls, you have been deceived, and the young men you love are
impostors.”
“I thought so,” muttered Helen, grimly.
“Oh, uncle, don’t, don’t say that!” cried Amy, despairingly.
“It’s true, my dears; and the worst of it is, I knew the truth all the
time. Now, don’t have hysterics, but listen and enjoy the joke as I do.
At Coblentz, when you sat in the balcony, two young men overheard Amy
sigh for adventures, and Helen advise making a romance out of the gloves
one of the lads had dropped. They had seen you by day; both admired you,
and being idle, gay young fellows, they resolved to devote their
vacation to gratifying your wishes and enjoying themselves. We met at
the Fortress; I knew one of them, and liked the other immensely; so when
they confided their scheme to me I agreed to help them carry it out, as
I had perfect confidence in both, and thought a little adventure or two
would do you good.”
“Uncle, you were mad,” said Helen; and Amy added, tragically,—
“You don’t know what trouble has come of it.”
“Perhaps I was; that remains to be proved. I do know everything, and
fail to see any trouble, so don’t cry, little girl,” briskly replied the
inexplicable major, “Well, we had a merry time planning our prank. One
of the lads insisted on playing courier, though I objected. He’d done it
before, liked the part, and would have his way. The other couldn’t
decide, being younger and more in love; so we left him to come into the
comedy when he was ready. Karl did capitally, as you will allow; and I
am much attached to him, for in all respects he has been true to his
word. He began at Coblentz; the other, after doing the mysterious at
Heidelberg, appeared as an exile, and made quick work with the
prejudices of my well-beloved nieces—hey, Amy?”
“Go on; who are they?” cried both girls, breathlessly.
“Wait a bit; I’m not bound to expose the poor fellows to your scorn and
anger. No; if you are going to be high and haughty, to forget their
love, refuse to forgive their frolic, and rend their hearts with
reproaches, better let them remain unknown.”
“No, no; we will forget and forgive, only speak!” was the command of
both.
“You promise to be lenient and mild, to let them confess their motives,
and to award a gentle penance for their sins?”
“Yes, we promise!”
“Then, come in, my lads, and plead for your lives.”
As he spoke the major threw open the door, and two gentlemen entered the
room—one, slight and dark, with brilliant black eyes; the other tall and
large, with blond hair and beard. Angry, bewildered, and shame-stricken
as they were, feminine curiosity overpowered all other feelings for the
moment, and the girls sat looking at the culprits with eager eyes, full
of instant recognition; for though the disguise was off, and neither had
seen them in their true characters but once, they felt no doubt, and
involuntarily exclaimed,—
“Karl!”
“Casimer.”
“No, young ladies; the courier and exile are defunct, and from their
ashes rise Baron Sigismund Palsdorf, my friend, and Sidney Power, my
nephew. I give you one hour to settle the matter; then I shall return to
bestow my blessing or to banish these scapegraces forever.”
And, having fired his last shot, the major prudently retreated, without
waiting to see its effect.
It was tremendous, for it carried confusion into the fair enemy’s camp;
and gave the besiegers a momentary advantage of which they were not slow
to avail themselves.
For a moment the four remained mute and motionless: then Amy, like all
timid things, took refuge in flight, and Sidney followed her into the
garden, glad to see the allies separated. Helen, with the courage of her
nature, tried to face and repulse the foe; but love was stronger than
pride, maiden shame overcame anger, and, finding it vain to meet and
bear down the steady, tender glance of the blue eyes fixed upon her, she
drooped her head into her hands and sat before him, like one conquered
but too proud to cry “Quarter.” Her lover watched her till she hid her
face, then drew near, knelt down before her, and said, with an undertone
of deep feeling below the mirthful malice of his words,—
“Mademoiselle, pardon me that I am a foolish baron, and dare to offer
you the title that you hate. I have served you faithfully for a month,
and, presumptuous as it is, I ask to be allowed to serve you all my
life. Helen, say you forgive the deceit for love’s sake.”
“No; you are false and forsworn. How can I believe that anything is
true?”
And Helen drew away the hand of which he had taken possession.
“Heart’s dearest, you trusted me in spite of my disguise; trust me
still, and I will prove that I am neither false nor forsworn. Catechise
me, and see if I was not true in spite of all my seeming deception.”
“You said your name was Karl Hoffman,” began Helen, glad to gain a
little time to calm herself before the momentous question came.
“It is; I have many, and my family choose to call me Sigismund,” was the
laughing answer.
“I’ll never call you so; you shall be Karl, the courier, all your life
to me,” cried Helen, still unable to meet the ardent eyes before her.
“Good; I like that well; for it assures me that all my life I shall be
something to you, my heart. What next?”
“When I asked if you were the baron, you denied it.”
“Pardon! I simply said my name was Hoffman. You did not ask me point
blank if I was the baron; had you done so, I think I should have
confessed all, for it was very hard to restrain myself this morning.”
“No, not yet; I have more questions;” and Helen warned him away, as it
became evident that he no longer considered restraint necessary.
“Who is Ludmilla?” she said, sharply.
“My faith, that is superb!” exclaimed the baron, with a triumphant smile
at her betrayal of jealousy. “How if she is a former love?” he asked,
with a sly look at her changing face.
“It would cause me no surprise; I am prepared for anything.”
“How if she is my dearest sister, for whom I sent, that she might
welcome you and bring the greetings of my parents to their new
daughter?”
“Is it, indeed, so?”
And Helen’s eyes dimmed as the thought of parents, home and love filled
her heart with tenderest gratitude, for she had long been an orphan.
“_Leibchen_, it is true; to-morrow you shall see and know how dear you
already are to them, for I write often and they wait eagerly to receive
you.”
Helen felt herself going very fast, and made an effort to harden her
heart, less too easy victory should reward this audacious lover.
“I may not go; I also have friends, and in England we are not won in
this wild way. I will yet prove you false; it will console me for being
so duped if I can call you traitor. You said Casimer had fought in
Poland.”
“Cruelest of women, he did, but under his own name, Sidney Power.”
“Then, he was not the brave Stanislas?—and there is no charming
Casimer?”
“Yes, there are both,—his and my friends, in Paris; true Poles, and when
we go there you shall see them.”
“But his illness was a ruse?”
“No; he was wounded in the war and has been ill since. Not of a fatal
malady, I own; his cough misled you, and _he_ has no scruples in fabling
to any extent. I am not to bear the burden of his sins.”
“Then, the romances he told us about your charity, your virtues,
and—your love of liberty were false?” said Helen, with a keen glance,
for these tales had done much to interest her in the unknown baron.
Sudden color rose to his forehead, and for the first time his eyes fell
before hers,—not in shame, but with a modest man’s annoyance at hearing
himself praised.
“Sidney is enthusiastic in his friendship, and speaks too well for me.
The facts are true, but he doubtless glorified the simplest by his way
of telling it. Will you forgive my follies, and believe me when I
promise to play and duel no more?”
“Yes.”
She yielded her hand now, and her eyes were full of happiness, yet she
added, wistfully,—
“And the betrothed, your cousin, Minna,—is she, in truth, not dear to
you?”
“Very dear, but less so than another; for I could not learn of her in
years what I learned in a day when I met you. Helen, this was begun in
jest,—it ends in solemn earnest, for I love my liberty, and I have lost
it, utterly and forever. Yet I am glad; look in my face and tell me you
believe it.”
He spoke now as seriously as fervently, and with no shadow on her own,
Helen brushed back the blond hair and looked into her lover’s face.
Truth, tenderness, power, and candor were written there in characters
that could not lie; and with her heart upon her lips, she answered, as
he drew her close,—
“I do believe, do love you, Sigismund!”
Meanwhile another scene was passing in the garden. Sidney, presuming
upon his cousinship, took possession of Amy, bidding her “strike but
hear him.” Of course she listened with the usual accompaniment of tears
and smiles, reproaches and exclamations, varied by cruel exultations and
coquettish commands to go away and never dare approach her again.
“_Ma drogha_, listen and be appeased. Years ago you and I played
together as babies, and our fond mammas vowed we should one day mate.
When I was a youth of fourteen and you a mite of seven I went away to
India with my father, and at our parting promised to come back and marry
you. Being in a fret because you couldn’t go also, you haughtily
declined the honor, and when I offered a farewell kiss, struck me with
this very little hand. Do you remember it?”
“Not I. Too young for such nonsense.”
“I do, and I also remember that in my boyish way I resolved to keep my
word sooner or later, and I’ve done it.”
“We shall see, sir,” cried Amy, strongly tempted to repeat her part of
the childish scene as well as her cousin, but her hand was not free, and
he got the kiss without the blow.
“For eleven years we never met. You forgot me entirely, and ‘Cousin
Sidney’ remained an empty name. I was in India till four years ago;
since then I’ve been flying about Germany and fighting in Poland, where
I nearly got my quietus.”
“My dear boy, were you wounded?”
“Bless you, yes; and very proud of it I am. I’ll show you my scars some
day; but never mind that now. A little while ago I went to England,
seized with a sudden desire to find my wife.”
“I admire your patience in waiting; so flattering to me, you know,” was
the sharp answer.
“It looks like neglect, I confess; but I’d heard reports of your
flirtations, and twice of your being engaged, so I kept away till my
work was done. Was it true?”
“I never flirt, Sidney, and I was only engaged a little bit once or
twice. I didn’t like it, and never mean to do so any more.”
“I shall see that you don’t flirt; but you are very much engaged now, so
put on your ring and make no romances about any ‘S. P.’ but myself.”
“I shall wait till you clear your character; I’m not going to care for a
deceitful impostor. What made you think of this prank?”
“You did.”
“I? How?”
“When in England I saw your picture, though you were many a mile away,
and fell in love with it. Your mother told me much about you, and I saw
she would not frown upon my suit. I begged her not to tell you I had
come, but let me find you and make myself known when I liked. You were
in Switzerland, and I went after you. At Coblentz I met Sigismund, and
told him my case; he is full of romance, and when we overheard you in
the balcony we were glad of the hint. Sigismund was with me when you
came, and admired Helen immensely, so he was wild to have a part in the
frolic. I let him begin, and followed you unseen to Heidelberg, meaning
to personate an artist. Meeting you at the castle, I made a good
beginning with the vaults and the ring, and meant to follow it up by
acting the baron, you were so bent on finding him, but Sigismund forbade
it. Turning over a trunk of things left there the year before, I came
upon my old Polish uniform, and decided to be a Thaddeus.”
“How well you did it! Wasn’t it hard to act all the time?” asked Amy,
wonderingly.
“Very hard with Helen, she is so keen, but not a bit so with you, for
you are such a confiding soul any one could cheat you. I’ve betrayed
myself a dozen times, and you never saw it. Ah, it was capital fun to
play the forlorn exile, study English, and flirt with my cousin.”
“It was very base. I should think you’d be devoured with remorse. Aren’t
you sorry?”
“For one thing. I cropped my head lest you should know me. I was proud
of my curls, but I sacrificed them all to you.”
“Peacock! Did you think that one glimpse of your black eyes and fine
hair would make such an impression that I should recognize you again?”
“I did, and for that reason disfigured my head, put on a mustache, and
assumed hideous spectacles. Did you never suspect my disguise, Amy?”
“No. Helen used to say that she felt something was wrong, but I never
did till the other night.”
“Didn’t I do that well? I give you my word it was all done on the spur
of the minute. I meant to speak soon, but had not decided how, when you
came out so sweetly with that confounded old cloak, of which I’d no more
need than an African has of a blanket. Then a scene I’d read in a novel
came into my head, and I just repeated it _con amore_. Was I very
pathetic and tragical, Amy?”
“I thought so then. It strikes me as ridiculous now, and I can’t help
feeling sorry that I wasted so much pity on a man who—”
“Loves you with all his heart and soul. Did you cry and grieve over me,
dear little tender thing? and do you think now that I am a heartless
fellow, bent only on amusing myself at the expense of others? It’s not
so; and you shall see how true and good and steady I can be when I have
any one to love and care for me. I’ve been alone so long it’s new and
beautiful to be petted, confided in, and looked up to by an angel like
you.”
He was in earnest now; she felt it, and her anger melted away like dew
before the sun.
“Poor boy! You will go home with us now, and let us take care of you in
quiet England. You’ll play no more pranks, but go soberly to work and do
something that shall make me proud to be your cousin, won’t you?”
“If you’ll change ‘cousin’ to ‘wife’ I’ll be and do whatever you please.
Amy, when I was a poor, dying, Catholic foreigner you loved me and would
have married me in spite of everything. Now that I’m your well, rich,
Protestant cousin, who adores you as that Pole never could, you turn
cold and cruel. Is it because the romance is gone, or because your love
was only a girl’s fancy, after all?”
“You deceived me and I can’t forget it; but I’ll try,” was the soft
answer to his reproaches.
“Are you disappointed that I’m not a baron?”
“A little bit.”
“Shall I be a count? They gave me a title in Poland, a barren honor, but
all they had to offer, poor souls, in return for a little blood. Will
you be Countess Zytomar and get laughed at for your pains, or plain Mrs.
Power, with a good old English name?”
“Neither, thank you; it’s only a girlish fancy, which will soon be
forgotten. Does the baron love Helen?” asked Amy, abruptly.
“Desperately, and she?”
“I think he will be happy; she is not one to make confidantes, but I
know by her tenderness with me, her sadness lately, and something in her
way of brightening when he comes, that she thinks much of him and loves
Karl Hoffman. How it will be with the baron I cannot say.”
“No fear of him; he wins his way everywhere. I wish I were as
fortunate;” and the gay young gentleman heaved an artful sigh and
coughed the cough that always brought such pity to the girl’s soft eyes.
She glanced at him as he leaned pensively on the low wall, looking down
into the lake, with the level rays of sunshine on his comely face and
figure. Something softer than pity stole into her eye, as she said,
anxiously,—
“You are not really ill, Sidney?”
“I have been, and still need care, else I may have a relapse,” was the
reply of this treacherous youth, whose constitution was as sound as a
bell.
Amy clasped her hands, as if in a transport of gratitude, exclaiming,
fervently,—
“What a relief it is to know that you are not doomed to—”
She paused with a shiver, as if the word were too hard to utter, and
Sidney turned to her with a beaming face, which changed to one of
mingled pain and anger, as she added, with a wicked glance,—
“Wear spectacles.”
“Amy, you’ve got no heart!” he cried, in a tone that banished her last
doubt of his love and made her whisper tenderly, as she clung to his
arm,—
“No, dear; I’ve given it all to you.”
Punctual to the minute, Major Erskine marched into the _salon_, with
Mrs. Cumberland on his arm, exclaiming, as he eyed the four young people
together again,—
“Now, ladies, is it to be ‘Paradise Lost’ or ‘Regained’ for the
prisoners at the bar?”
At this point the astonished gentleman found himself taken possession of
by four excited individuals, for the girls embraced and kissed him, the
young men wrung his hand and thanked him, and all seemed bent on
assuring him that they were intensely happy, grateful and affectionate.
From this assault he emerged flushed and breathless, but beaming with
satisfaction, and saying paternally,—
“Bless you, my children, bless you. I hoped and worked for this, and to
prove how well I practise what I preach, let me present to you—my wife.”
As he drew forward the plump widow with a face full of smiles and tears,
a second rush was made, and congratulations, salutes, exclamations and
embraces were indulged in to every one’s satisfaction.