Under the Big Dipper

by Desiderius George Dery

Morton had taken Helène’s photograph out of his pocket and was gazing raptly at the face in the moonlight that shone fully where he was sitting. Should he speak to her in the morning—the last day before they parted? No—he could not take the advantage her helplessness gave him. He must wait until she was free to think and decide—free of the sense of obligation which she might now feel.

Replacing the photograph he rose from the bench, and looking at his watch found that it was still three hours before the dawn. He let himself in the house and tried the chimney seat. But he was restless—he was too far from where the girls were sleeping. It would be better if he lay down in the room adjoining theirs. He found the place empty of any couch or bed, but spreading his rug on the floor he used his coat as a pillow and was soon at peace in what the Easterns call “the outer court of the Seven Heavens”—the deep sleep of tired limbs and a clear conscience.

Helène and the Princess had enjoyed the evening fully. Before retiring to bed they had exchanged glad expressions at this happy issue out of their afflictions. Their hearts were full to overflowing with gratitude towards their deliverer. They realized now fully what Mr. Morton had done for them, and could find no words in which sufficiently to express their feelings. The Princess began to quiz Helène about him, but by that time the two were in bed and the light lowered, and Helène was glad of the darkness. She managed, however, to reply to her friend’s remarks in a voice of cold indifference. She thought him rather curt and domineering she said. The Princess laughed quietly and told Helène to go to sleep and dream of knights of old.

Helène said nothing and pretended to go to sleep. It was long, however, before she did sleep. When she awoke, after what seemed to her but a few minutes later, she heard a cock crowing lustily outside. In the low light of the lamp her watch told her that it would soon be daybreak and time to begin making preparations for continuing their journey. Mr. Morton would be punctual, she was sure. She would get up and dress now.

Throwing aside the voluminous quilts she stepped out of bed, though not without some pain, for her limbs were still sore and aching from the previous day’s exertions, and in a few minutes had clothed herself in the garments of the stout Rossika.

Stepping softly so as not awaken her companion, she left the room, walked into the outer room in which Morton lay, and stood looking through the window. In the darkness behind her Morton, who slept lightly, had heard her soft footsteps. He looked up from where he lay and saw her head and slender neck silhouetted against the lattice-work of the window. He could but faintly distinguish her outline, but, faint as it was, it was enough to cause his heart to leap to his throat and a wave of exquisite emotion to surge over him.

Quickly rising he put on his coat and, before Helène had become aware of his presence, he was by her side.

“Is that you, Comtesse?” he whispered.

“Oh, Mr. Morton, I—I hope I didn’t disturb you. I am so sorry. I was not aware that anyone was up yet——”

“I am afraid I frightened you, Comtesse. I have been around the house and found that our host has been remiss in his duty. Instead of watching he is sound asleep in his bed. Have you had a good rest? I see you are all prepared.”