While New York matrons who had their daughters’ welfares to think of were busy planning a season’s siege of the bachelor millionaire’s heart, the unconscious object of their thoughts was sailing away from them—back to a land he longed to see because somewhere in it lived one for whom his whole being yearned, and without whom life would not be worth living for him.
CHAPTER XVIII
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?”