AFTER her trying experiences in that drive from Roumelia, HelÈne welcomed the harbor of refuge afforded her by the castle at Weimar. A small and pretty suite of rooms had been assigned to her in the older east wing, where her mistress, the Princess Marie-Louise, was also provided for. Her attendance at the Court was to begin after she had been presented to the Dowager Duchess Clementine. A maid had been assigned to her, and in her new surroundings she forgot for a while her troubles, though she could not overcome the waves of depression which continually assailed her when she thought of her father.

The maid, Josephine, a pert, little Parisian person, proved to be an adept at her business; which is to say, that, in addition to a capacity for ministering to a lady’s toilet, she was a most valuable and insistent gossip and a consummate flatterer. During her ministrations she told HelÈne that she was prettier and had hair more beautiful than any other lady of the Court. The hair, especially, seemed to possess most remarkable qualities. By its quality, she judged the gracious Comtesse to be a lady of fine mind and of a strong constitution; by its lustre, that the lady’s heart was pure as gold; by its tendency to waviness, that its owner would have a long life and be wealthy and happy, and that her future husband would be great and powerful and love her always.

HelÈne listened patiently with a smile. She knew the tribe and knew also that it would be her comfort and peace of mind if she said nothing but appeared interested. Besides, the girl was really shrewd and very amusing. Without her chatter, life in the castle would have been like that of a nunnery. For the atmosphere of the place was heavy with ceremonies and formalities. HelÈne’s free spirit soon felt the restraint keenly. She learned that it was not proper to speak except in subdued tones, and then only of insipid matters. Laughter was rarely indulged in, for the Mistress of the Ceremonies ruled with an iron hand. Her first, brief interview with this handsome and stately dame was an experience she had no desire to renew. She felt that she had been in a gigantic, upholstered refrigerator after she had been permitted to retire from that august presence.

HelÈne sat in her pretty boudoir thinking of her father. Mr. Tyler had called the day before to tell her that he had received a wire from Brindisi advising that a letter was on the way. She was expecting him. Oh, if only her dear father were with her—how different things would be! She pictured his meeting with the fat Dowager and almost laughed aloud. How exquisitely polite he would be and yet how finely independent! She could almost see the twinkle in his eyes at the air these princelets gave themselves. She hoped it would not be long before he would come and take her away from these Arctic regions to a quiet and sunny retreat where they could be alone together in freedom and happiness. When would he come? Her eyes fell on a little side-table on which stood a Dresden vase with a cluster of roses in it. Ah, and Mr. Morton, would she ever meet him again? They were the roses he had sent her, full-blown and withering now, the flowers hanging on wilted stalks in spite of the care Josephine had bestowed on them.

It was late in the afternoon and the fading light of the short autumn day spread a gloom through the room. She rose and switched on the electric lights of the candelabra, and turning to put the blinds down, she almost ran into the outstretched arms of a slender prim woman rustling towards her in silk. HelÈne gave a glad cry.

“Anna! dear Anna, where do you come from?”

“Ach, mein Liebchen, but it is good to see you,” and the elderly woman embraced and kissed her over and over again, the tears running down her face. “Forgive me, Comtesse,” she begged, releasing the girl, “but I could not help it. I wanted to see you again.”

“Oh, Anna, I am so glad you are here, so glad. Now that I have my dear nurse again, all will be well.”

“Why, my little lamb, what is the matter? Are you sick or lonely or unhappy? Of course, everything will be well. I am going to stay with you, my little golden mistress. I only just heard of the Princess’s arrival, and did not lose a minute getting here. Certainly all will be well now.”

HelÈne looked at the dear face of her second mother, and felt so comforted that she believed a Providence had sent the good woman to her. How good it was to be loved and to have some one near you in whom you could trust and to whom you could tell the doubts that were racking your heart!

“But how do you happen to be in Weimar, Anna?”

The question was sufficient to open the sluices of the nurse’s reservoir of talk; she talked so rapidly that she barely gave herself time to catch her breath. She was married now—to Anton Schreiber—Anton had been chief valet to His Highness, the old Duke. They lived now in Altenburg, in a beautiful cottage with a lovely garden. Oh, and they were happy and comfortably off, what with her savings and Anton’s. She had come to Weimar to visit her niece, Josephine. Why the very Josephine who attended on her sweet lambkin! Of course! And, oh, how her darling had grown! How beautiful and grand she looked! And what lovely hair! How long was it since she had seen her? Yes—three years. Dear, dear, how time does fly! And what had she been doing? And what brought her to Weimar?

HelÈne waited patiently, smiling delightedly all the time. However, the good lady’s breath gave out, at last, and HelÈne had the opportunity to open up her heart’s woes. She was so unhappy in the castle, she explained.

“My dear,” replied the nurse promptly, “take no notice of the people—they’re not worth it. And we’ll begin at once.” She rose up quickly and ringing for Josephine said to her, “Tell the man to serve dinner here for two. I am dining with the Comtesse.—There,” she turned to HelÈne, “we’ll make ourselves at home, and do as we like.”

HelÈne was astonished to find how easily it could be done. She spent one of the happiest evenings in her life with this nurse, waited on and served by the lackey who looked to her the reflection of the fearful formality of the dining-room below. The hours passed so pleasantly that she knew not they were passing, and was surprised to find that it was time to retire for the night.

Even then Anna would not be gainsaid; she must put her darling to bed and see that she was snug and comfortable.

“You are so like your sainted mother,” Anna would say over and over again, as she helped her to undress. And HelÈne would cry only to be soothed again by gentle caresses and soft murmuring words. It was just like the days of her childhood when Anna would send her to sleep with plaintive songs and tales of “Red Riding Hood,” and “Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp.” And when at last she fell asleep—she slept without a dream, the peaceful, happy sleep of a child.

The next morning, early, Anna was at the bedside to see to HelÈne’s wants. She insisted on dividing Josephine’s duties and taking it upon herself to dress her “baby,” as she called her.

“Isn’t she the loveliest child you ever saw?” she asked of Josephine. Josephine agreed laughingly.

“Ah, there isn’t a beauty like this in any other part of the Schloss. Won’t those dry old maids be jealous! They’ve no chance for a husband with our little girl, have they, Josephine?”

“No, indeed,” asserted that demoiselle. “They’re sour enough to frighten any man away—the cats!”

HelÈne was overcome with her blushes at the irresponsible twittering of the two women, and begged them to spare her feelings. But she couldn’t close their mouths—they had not had such an opportunity in which to indulge themselves in many a day. Josephine went so far even as to hint of a beau, at which Anna bridled up. Beau, indeed! Her darling had no thought of beaux. How could she, at her age—only nineteen—the dear, sweet lamb!

HelÈne really was relieved when the time came for the two to retire. She was impatient, too, for Mr. Tyler to come. It was an anxious moment for her when his card was brought up. He came in quietly, a gentle, sad smile on his distinguished face. She could not restrain herself, and made a quick movement towards him, her eyes streaming the question that her open lips could not utter. With grave courtesy he took both her hands very affectionately in his and led her to a seat. And then he told her the sad news—told it with all the kindliness and tenderness of his finely sympathetic heart. The truth could not be hidden, but he softened its harshness as only a practised diplomatist like he could do. And yet the truth was bitter. His heart went out to the poor orphaned girl for whom he had now come to feel a father’s affection. It was very painful to see her suffering. At first she could not believe what she heard, and stood gazing with wide eyes unable to move. But under Mr. Tyler’s gentle words, she broke down utterly and sobbed as if her heart had burst. Fortunately, Anna came in, and carried her darling to her bedroom.

Mr. Tyler told Anna to tell the Comtesse that he would look after everything, and would call later in the day, when he expected to bring with him Count Rondell’s papers and last letters. He would remain in Weimar a few days longer, and would hold himself at the Comtesse’s orders. “And give this letter,” he added, “to the Comtesse. It is from a friend. She will be glad to receive it.”

It was, indeed, a Providence that had sent her nurse to her at this juncture; for Count Rondell’s death had left HelÈne practically alone in the world. It is not well to linger over such agonies as the poor girl endured. They are the common lot of our humanity. Happy are they whom they leave unbroken in spirit—it is those they strike down who are to be pitied. HelÈne was of the sterner stuff, and she was helped by her nurse. Nothing softens sorrow as love does—and of love Anna’s motherly bosom was filled abundantly. Herself childless, she had it all to give to this child of her adoption—and she gave it freely, with a large measure.

The Princess, also, when she heard the sad tidings, came to her full of affectionate sympathy; but, alas, what could she do to help her friend! She was an exile now—a nobody. She would see that the presentation was put off.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, with tears in her eyes, “If we only had some wise and powerful friend! We are both of us dependent on the charity of strangers.”

A friend’s troubles act as a salve to our own troubles, as fire extinguishes fire, and in her loyalty to the Princess, HelÈne realized that she was not alone in her sorrow. The two girls thus helped each other in their hour of need.

Mr. Tyler kept his word and came, courteously kind and sympathetic as always. He had seen to everything. He brought with him a considerable sum of money—her father’s possession—and he proposed to deposit that in the local bank in the Comtesse’s name. There were a few formalities to be gone through in that matter, and he had brought Herr Blume of the Laenderbank to witness her signature to some documents.

Mr. Tyler reassured her of his devotion and begged her to keep her courage—for her father’s sake.

“You owe it to him, Comtesse,” he said, “as his daughter. Here in this package you will find his letters. They will tell you everything you ought to know.”

She took the package reverently.

“I do not know how to thank you, dear sir, for all you have done. I shall never forget it.”

Mr. Tyler smiled, and with the liberty of his years, bent over and kissed her hair. “Fear not, be of good heart, and all will be well. Good-by, and God bless you.”

For some minutes she sat alone, staring straight before her with unseeing eyes, her fingers playing nervously with the package on her knees. Then slowly she broke the seals and listlessly removed the contents of a small box.She found in it her father’s watch, some rings, a small locket containing a miniature of her mother, a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon and inscribed, “To my daughter—to be retained, but not read,” and three envelopes, two of which were sealed and addressed to her.

The sight of the trinkets moved her deeply, especially the wedding ring. She took them into her bedroom and sat down near the window. Taking one of the envelopes, dated October —, she broke the seal and read. It seemed to her as if she were holding a communion with the spirit of her father—as if she were listening to a message from the grave:

“My most beloved child,” it began:

“The mission I had undertaken has failed; my journey ended in nothing. It has left me so enfeebled that I am not able to move with any freedom from pain. The doctor tells me I am very ill, and I realize that I am a doomed man.

“How long a time is still left me I know not; but I must write to you while I still have the strength. If this letter should reach you, you will know that I have not been vouchsafed the blessing of coming to you myself.

“And in this there is no cause for either tears or mourning. I ran a good race and have reached the goal. My one great grief is born of the knowledge of the pain my going will give you, my dearest child. You are so young to be left friendless in this world!

“But I have arranged with my dear friend, Baron Robert de Haas, to undertake your guardianship. He is in possession of my will. You know him and like him. He is a man of noble mind and large heart and he will take my place worthily. I cannot leave you riches, my darling, but I comfort myself with the thought that you will not regret that fact. What I have is yours, and, with Baron de Haas’s help, it will be sufficient to keep you independent and free from want. For the rest you will, I know, bravely work out your destiny in your own way.

“And now, dear one of my heart, a few last words from your father. A woman was created by God to be the mate of a man—a good man. If, as I fervently pray, such a man should enter your life and win your love, think of your gracious mother to whose influence I owe so much. A man deserving of your love should be honorable in the absolute sense of that word—a gentleman, not in title, but in thought and deed. He must be such that you will always be proud of him and proud to be the mother of his children, if God so give it. You will recognize him by these signs: that he is a good son to his parents, loyal to his country and God and proud of his honor. And if I have judged my child aright, you will deserve him. In body and in mind, you are your mother over again, and the earth knew not her like in beauty of form and nobility of spirit.

“Forgive me for seeming to preach— Your happiness is so close to my heart. You have been the reward of my life, my pride and my joy. May you find peace and love all your life. I am holding you in my arms as I write these last words:

“Mein Liebchen—Good-bye, until we meet again in God’s own good time.

“Your Father.”

A postscript, dated the same month and written at Suez, followed:

“I have forgotten my illness in my anxiety about you. Word has just reached me that de Haas is no more, and I know not now to whom to turn. With this news came terrible tidings of the happenings in our poor, stricken Roumelia. I am so far from you and cannot help you. God alone must help—and He will.

“I think it was God’s Providence that sent me Mr. John Morton, a young American. He agreed, last night, to take my place and go to Roumelia and rescue you from the clutches of those rebels. He is to bring you and Princess Marie-Louise to Weimar. If he succeeds, and I am confident he will, let him guide you in your next step. He is a gentleman, and he can help you. You may rely on his word and, if I am a judge of human nature, he will not fail you.

“It is useless to say much—and needless to say more.

“If I could have come myself, I would not have sent a substitute.

“May God take you under His protection.”

HelÈne’s face was bathed in tears. It was with trembling hands that she opened the second letter. The handwriting was feebler and the lines very uneven. Evidently, her father had written it under great mental stress.

“Brindisi, November 6, 189—

“My Darling Child:

“Mr. Morton left two days ago for Roumelia with my prayers. I have heard no news of what is happening there and I fear the worst.

“My strength is failing fast and the doctor sent me from Rome by my American friend has been very frank with me. I have but a few days more in which to live.

“As I am still able to think clearly and write, I must make full use of the time left me. I omitted to tell you in my previous letter something which I think you ought to know. When I first spoke to Mr. Morton of going to Roumelia, I spoke on behalf of the Princess. He refused absolutely to undertake the journey or to mix in any way with the political affairs of the country. Indeed, he was indignant with me for what he considered my presumption in asking him to engage himself in an enterprise of such danger and risk. His first duty was to his parents and he was called to them. I was not surprised at his attitude, but I had no alternative.

“It was during my pleading that I accidentally uncovered a portrait of yourself, and, to my utter astonishment, he suddenly changed his mind and accepted the task. I tell you this because I think you should know it. The man is a noble fellow. I feel that in my heart. If he should succeed in his mission and you are once more free, do not hesitate to accept his friendship. If I knew that you would do this I should die the happier for knowing it.

“I can say no more, but pray and hope.

“God bless you and protect you, dearest.”

The third unsealed envelope contained a simple note written in a strange, feminine hand, in French.

“Brindisi, November 14, 189—

“I am Paola Rimoni, nurse and attendant to his Excellency Count Rondell-Barton who has requested me to write down his last words, as follows:

“A telegram from Monsieur Morton has just arrived announcing that his party has safely crossed the border. The man has justified my faith in him. May God reward and bless him.

“I send my daughter my blessing and my dearest love. I die happy knowing that she is safe.

“My gratitude to Monsieur Morton, my homage to Her Highness, my last kiss and blessing to my beloved child. Roumelia forever!”

Below was scrawled in letters that were barely decipherable—“Rondell.”

HelÈne was too overcome to move from where she sat. Through the window came the pale light of the waning day tinged with the red of the sinking sun. The room was filling with deep shadows. She saw nothing. Darkness seemed to have fallen on her. Slipping to her knees she laid her aching head upon the seat and prayed inwardly, the while the scalding tears fell down her cheeks. It was thus that the faithful Anna found her an hour later.

The first great sorrow of youth is the inheritance of tears that have fallen before. It is the burden of existence for an erring humanity. It means and must ever mean that the blood which has flowed from others’ hearts is the blood which will flow from our own. One generation must depart to make room for a generation to come; and the burden of sorrow we have received from those who have gone before us we shall pass on to those who come after us. Happy are they who can weep in their sorrow, for tears are a blood-letting of the spirit.

When she opened her eyes in the morning they fell on the Dresden vase now bereft of its flowers—the petals lay scattered on the table and carpet, and only dried stalks showed where a few days ago glowed the red damask of roses. Was this to be an omen of her own life? She shivered at the question. Rising quickly she gathered the petals with loving care, and taking the dried stems from the vase placed both in a drawer of her dressing-table. She knew now that her heart lay with the faded leaves.

She remembered the letter Mr. Tyler had left with Anna. It was a message from the man whom her father had blessed with his dying words. So he was going—sailing over the ocean to that far country where was his home. Would he, too, lose his father? How cruel life was? He had signed himself, “in deepest sympathy and devotion.” The words were like balm to her sore heart. No—she was not alone in the gray world! And the sunlight of the morning was repeated in her smile.

In the company of her faithful nurse, HelÈne traveled the short distance to Sigmaringen, the home town of her mother’s family, to attend her father’s funeral. Mr. and Mrs. Tyler were present, and their presence helped her not a little to bear the trial. On her return she found Donald waiting for her at the railway station. Her heart gave a bound when she saw his lanky figure and hard yet kindly face. The sight of him comforted her greatly, and she was glad to accept his escort to the Schloss.

The next day she was compelled to undergo the trial of an interview with the Mistress of the Ceremonies, Baroness Radau. It was necessary that she should be coached in the duties incumbent on a lady of the Court of Saxe-Weimar. While expressing sympathy for her in her bereavement, the majestic dame admonished her to repress her grief. It was not proper to show undue emotion. She must read the lives of the forty-nine dukes of the blessed realm and become acquainted with the works of Goethe and Schiller, who were the glory of Weimar. It would also be very necessary for her to know the proper way to bow and the precedence of rank; and, above all, she must never forget that next to God came Duke Ernest Victor the Seventeenth.

On account of her mourning, the color of her presentation dress was to be a subdued gray, under a special dispensation. It would be of the regulation style. Perfumes were permitted, but only of a particular kind. Her Highness did not favor any but that of lilac. Her hair must be plainly arranged and drawn tight and smooth across the brow. She might wear pearls.

The day of the ordeal of the Presentation came at last. She went to it with the greatest trepidation and returned from it almost prostrated from the strain of waiting her turn. She had been permitted to touch the gloved hand of the voluminous Dowager and the hands of the reigning Duke’s consort and her own Princess. Poor little Marie-Louise looked like a martyr waiting to be led to the stake as she stood on a slightly lower dais than that on which the Dowager sat, dressed in stiff silk weighted with gold embroidery. When HelÈne approached her, she cast big sad eyes on her friend like those of a doe flying from the hunters.

Having been presented, HelÈne was now permitted the freedom of the Court. Her duties were simple but weariedly monotonous. They amounted to a regulated routine of formality and enforced idleness. She was permitted to appear in white or gray at the gatherings, but at the Chapel, which she attended twice a week, she was allowed to wear black. She was deprived of Josephine’s services and given in her stead a soured old maid, who was far more experienced and would be able to instruct her in the punctilios of the Court. Anna was no longer in Weimar; she had gone back to her little cottage and her beloved Anton.

But there was one pleasant interlude in the dreary round of her week’s life, and it came to her on her way to and from Chapel. On these occasions she would find McCormick waiting for her at the castle gate to learn of her health and to know if he could be of any service to her. Sometimes, after service was over, she would invite him to accompany her in her promenade round the Square within sight of the Schloss. On those occasions she would lead him to talk of his master, a subject on which Don was ever ready to descant. She would listen to him with downcast eyes, but with secret delight. These talks added fuel to the flame in her heart and warmed her lonely spirit.

Winter came, and with it the snow, which buried the little Thuringian castle in its white mantle. The monotony of her life palled more and more on her since she was now deprived of her walks. Occasionally a letter from Mr. Tyler and Anna would come as a ray of sunshine.

One never-to-be-forgotten day she received a box which, when she opened it, she found filled her chamber with the delicious scent of flowers. They were orchids of the purest white, sent by Morton. “Heartiest good wishes to you on your birthday. May you see many, many more in health and happiness.” The words were inscribed on his card. She had not realized that this was the last day in November, and that she was now twenty. That morning at the levÉe she attracted the curious glances of the women by the lovely orchids she wore at her breast. Not a few whispered malicious insinuations to each other.

HelÈne had but few opportunities of meeting her friend, the Princess. When she did she found her very unhappy. The poor girl had been made to feel her equivocal position at the Court, where she was treated as though she had come there uninvited. She had no means of her own, and this compelled her to be dependent on the good-will of people who, though royal in blood, were very mean in spirit, especially where money was concerned. There is no king so pompous as the kinglet, and as a consequence he attracts to him the effete and the provincial in mind—men who will cringe and fawn and flatter, and women whose only enjoyment is in gossip and slander. It was from the latter especially that the Princess suffered—and HelÈne also.

With the coming of December came preparations for the Christmas festivities. The Court was all agog, HelÈne excited with the rest. She had a better opportunity to know the “noble ladies” now. In mixing with them she occasionally caught whispers about “Americans,” and people who sacrificed their pride of descent on the altar of money. And she would notice that they cast side glances at her as they spoke. She did not altogether comprehend the meaning of their attitude, but she realized vaguely that she had become a persona non grata with these high-born tatlers, and, as a consequence, her unhappiness increased. She thought of her bank account. Perhaps these women had found out about it! Surely, it had been her father’s money that Mr. Tyler had brought her! The half question brought a doubt. Had Mr. Morton sent it? How absurd! And yet—yet—he was so generous. She would speak with the Princess about it.

The two girls talked it over and even went into calculations, in their simple way, as to the cost of the expedition Morton had undertaken. They were forced to the conclusion that Morton must have borne that himself; nay, that it was to his generosity they owed the very clothes they wore. Now they understood the dark references to “Americans” and money. HelÈne determined to find out the truth by writing to Mr. Tyler.

The reply she received did not clear the matter. Mr. Tyler thought she was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. She had far better leave well alone. So far as he knew, the moneys he had brought her came from her father. It could not be otherwise since they were drawn out of the Banca Nationale, where they had been deposited in Count Rondell’s name. He expected Mr. Morton’s arrival early next month, and no doubt he would call on her. He advised her to forget the matter until then.

HelÈne was torn by doubt, and humiliated in her pride. She did not know what to do nor where to turn.