“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,—
“Mademoiselle, I do not deserve a word from you, but it desolates me to know that I have grieved the little angel who is too dear to me. For her sake, pardon that I spoke my heart in spite of prudence, and permit me to send her this.”
Helen glanced from the flowers he held to his beseeching face, and her own softened. He looked so penitent and anxious, she had not the heart to reproach him.
“I will forgive you and carry your gift to Amy on one condition,” she said, gravely.
“Ah, you are kind! Name, then, the condition, I implore you, and I will agree.”
“Tell me, then, on your honor as a gentleman, are you not Baron Palsdorf?”