“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.