“Thank you. Permit me.”
With trembling hands she broke the letter and, turning towards the window, began to read.
During the reading, John stood drinking in the beauty of the agitated girl. He was exultant and distressed by turns. Exultant in that fate had led him to her—distressed at the sorrow that had come into her life. Come what may, he would, at least, rescue her from her present cruel position and bring her to where life would be worth living. His whole soul welled up in him, and it was only after a great effort of will that he calmed himself to the exigencies of the moment.
The letter read, the girl dropped her arms listlessly. She turned to Morton, her eyes filled with tears:
“How was my father when you left him, Mr. Morton? Was he very ill?”
Her voice broke a little from the stress of her feelings. She spoke in excellent English, though with a distinctly foreign accent, and both tone and words went to the young man’s heart.
“Count Rondell was not well, but he was not suffering. He wished me to hand you this ring as a further guarantee of myself. I was also to repeat to you his message: ‘From Arnim to his Kindchen.’”
Helène broke down utterly at these words. She took the ring with trembling hand and kissed it passionately the while tears coursed down her pale cheeks.
John turned away and watched the sparrows flitting across the garden. The scene in the stateroom with her father rose before his mind, and again a deep yearning filled him.
“Forgive me, Mr. Morton. My father’s letter unnerved me. What am I to do?”