"I do love him—oh, I do; but I didn't know it till he was so unhappy, and now I've done this dreadful harm. He'll die, and I can't help him, see him, or be anything to him. Oh, I've been a wicked, wicked girl, and never can be happy any more."
Angry, perplexed, and conscience-stricken, for what now seemed blind and unwise submission to the major, Helen devoted herself to calming Amy, and when at last the poor, broken-hearted little soul fell asleep in her arms, she pondered half the night upon the still unsolved enigma of the Baron Sigismund.
VIII
MORE MYSTERY
"Uncle, can I speak to you a moment?" said Helen, very gravely, as they left the breakfast-room next morning.
"Not now, my dear, I'm busy," was the hasty reply, as the major shawled Mrs. Cumberland for an early promenade.
Helen knit her brows irefully, for this answer had been given her half a dozen times lately when she asked for an interview. It was evident he wished to avoid all lectures, remonstrances, and explanations; and it was also evident that he was in love with the widow.
"Lovers are worse than lunatics to manage, so it is vain to try to get any help from him," sighed Helen, adding, as her uncle was gallantly leading his stout divinity away into the garden: "Amy has a bad headache, and I shall stay to take care of her, so we can't join your party to Chillon, sir. We have been there once, so you needn't postpone it for us."
"Very well, my dear," and the major walked away, looking much relieved.
As Helen was about to leave the salon Casimer appeared. A single glance at her face assured him that she knew all, and instantly assuming a confiding, persuasive air that was irresistible, he said, meekly,—