He was interrupted in his impassioned thinking by the opening of the door. It was the maid who had come to tell him that the Comtesse Rondell would be pleased to see him. With considerable trepidation and many misgivings he entered the apartment. The scent of flowers were wafted sweetly to his nostrils—he recognized it as the scent of the flowers he had sent her a little while ago, and his heart beat again. He saw them in a tall vase on a table near the window, and the sight of them deepened the turmoil within him. It was as if he had met his self-confessed self.
The soft frou-frou of silken skirts on carpet rustled and Helène stood before him in all the glory of her heightened beauty. She was dressed very simply in silver gray, but the rose color in her cheeks gave the contrast and drew his charmed gaze to the shining eyes that looked at him as if they were the windows of her noble spirit.
Morton stood gazing at the vision, spellbound. He drank in the sweetness and the light of it as if these were the one food he craved. With a bewitching smile she moved towards him conveying a pretty greeting with the gesture of her outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mr. Morton, for the lovely flowers. You are too kind. But how changed you are! Yesterday, you were the knight of old in armor, now you look like a gallant of the Ringstrasse.”
The girl was excited and felt an unaccountable shyness before him. She was trying to hide her embarrassment with an attempt at badinage. Morton sensed her feelings and tried to help her by smiling, but he could find no words. Instinctively she saw what was the matter with him, and with womanly quickness she changed the subject.
“Have you heard from papa?”
The important question brought Morton to himself again. He seized it gratefully. “Only the message I transmitted to you advising your early departure for Weimar—nothing more. I have arranged that Mr. Tyler accompany you to Weimar.”
“Ah, yes—I forgot; you are leaving us.” The rose in her cheeks had faded slowly and left the color of the lily behind, imparting a new beauty to the sweetness of the childlike face. Her long dark lashes had drooped and were quivering on the satin of her skin. He dared not look longer or he would forget himself. And time was pressing. He must be gone; but he must say just one word more before he left her.
“Comtesse, I am come to remind you of your promise given me at our last conversation together. You will not forget, will you, to call on me if you need help? I want to remain your friend, if you will permit me. This is my card; it will tell you where you can reach me at any time. Send me word and I will come. And here also is a package from your father. It contains such funds as you will need until Count Rondell joins you at Weimar.”
Helène took the card and package and laid them listlessly on the table on which stood the vase of flowers. An unknown fear had suddenly taken possession of her; she experienced a dread of dangers yet to come, and knew not how to account for it. Her father—what of him? Would she ever see him again? And this gentleman—would she ever meet him again? Morton’s voice came to her as if from a long way off.
“Dear lady, I have nothing more to say, except that I must tell you that my meeting you has been a great pleasure to me. I am leaving to return to my own people whom I have not seen in two years, and who are anxiously waiting for me. But I leave with the determination fixed to come back. May I hope—that you will be glad to see me when——”