"On the contrary, she is free. The engagement with Mr. Denham has been broken."
"What did I tell you? Did I not say it would be I?" in a burst of triumph.
As a good Boston woman I am chagrined to record that Bunker Hill and all the local lions, which I was at some pains to impress on his memory, did not prove so attractive as the earliest Western train.
Why make a long story of what every one foresees? In the course of the autumn and winter the count made flying visits to Washington, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and even San Francisco, but it was noticeable that the way to all these places lay through Detroit. He spoke English marvelously well now, and so won upon the hearts of Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair that on the 23d of April, being his twenty-first birthday, the marriage of the conde de Alvala and Helen St. Clair was duly celebrated. I could not leave my school to be present at the wedding, but the young couple came to Boston to take leave of me before sailing for Europe. They were radiant with happiness, and I could hardly tell which I loved best, my boy or my girl; but if the Italian had been there to ask if I ever saw a more beautiful couple, I should have answered no with great emphasis.
I will copy Helen's first letter in order to prove that a château en Espagne is not always a castle in the air:
"ALVALA, near Toledo, June 20, 1872.
"DEAR MADAME FLEMING: You have heard from mother of our voyage and safe arrival. We are now at home, Francisco and I, if I can ever learn to feel at home in such a grand place, where I can hardly find my way round. It is like one of the old palaces at Rome, the Borghese or Colonna, that we used to admire so much, with vast halls opening into one another, hangings of tapestry and Cordovan leather, marble statues and old paintings—family portraits by Titian and Velasquez, one or two Murillos, and—but I cannot write a catalogue. You must come to see us and the pictures. I am not sure which you will like the best. Francisco is very good to me, and so are all his friends. His sister and her husband were here to welcome us.
"One of the first things we did was to go down the rose-tree walk, along the banks of the Tagus, for more than a mile—white and delicate pink and deep-red roses blossoming above our heads and dropping their petals at our feet all the way. Francisco said he would make my life like that walk among the roses, all sweetness and beauty, but that he cannot tell.
"There is the old cathedral, with a wonderful head of Saint Francis and a whole forest of columns; and when you come we will bribe the sacristan not to lock you in, as they did at St. Roch. I shall never be a Roman Catholic, but I go to mass sometimes, for there is no Protestant service here, and one cannot be quite a heathen where everybody is so devout. What I dislike most is to have a chaplain in the house, walking about in his black petticoat, but of course I never say a word to Francisco.
"By and by we are going to our house in Madrid. Our house in Madrid! does not that sound very strange? It all seems so unreal that I am afraid of waking up and finding it a dream.