His lady was so intenselysoignée—that is what pleased Paul. He had never thought about such things, or noticed them much in other women, but she was a revelation.
No Roman Empress with her bath of asses' milk could have had a more wonderful toilet than she. And ever she was illusive, and he never quite got to the end of her mystery. Always there was a veil, when he least expected it, and so these hours for the most part were passed at the boiling-point of excitement and bliss. The experiences of another man's whole lifetime Paul was going through in the space of days.
It was the Monday following the wet Sunday when an incident happened which soon came back to him, and gave him food for reflection.
They would spend the day in the launch, she decided, going whither they wished, stopping here to pick gentians, going there under the shadow of trees—landing where and when they desired—even sleeping at Flüclen if the fancy took them to. Anna was sent on with their things in case this contingency occurred. And earth, water and sky seemed smiling them a welcome.
Just before they started, Dmitry, after the gentlest tap, noiselessly entered Paul's room. Paul was selecting some cigars from a box, and looked up in surprise as the stately servant cautiously closed the door.
"Yes, Dmitry, what is it?" he said half impatiently.
Dmitry advanced, and now Paul saw that he carried something in his hand. He bowed low with his usual courtly respect. Then he stammered a little as he began to speak.
The substance of his sentence, Paul gathered, was that the Excellency would not be inconveniencing himself too much, he hoped, if he would consent to carry this pistol. A very good pistol, he assured him, which would take but little room.
Paul's surprise deepened. Carry a pistol in peaceful Switzerland! It seemed too absurd.
"What on earth for, my friend?" he said.
But Dmitry would give no decided answer, only that it was wiser, when away from one's home and out with a lady, never to go unarmed. Real anxiety peeped from his cautious grey eyes.
Did Paul know how to shoot? And would he be pardoned for asking the Excellency such a question?—but in England, he heard, they dealt little with revolvers—and this was a point to be assured of.
Yes, Paul knew how to shoot! The idea made him laugh. But now he came to think of it, he had not had great practice with a revolver, and might not do so well as with a gun or rifle. But the whole thing seemed so absurd, he did not think it of much consequence.
"Of course I'll take it to please you, Dmitry," he said, "though I wish you would tell me why."
However, Dmitry escaped from the room without further words, his finger upon his lips.
The lady was looking more exquisitely white than usual; she wore soft pale mauve, and appeared in Paul's eyes a thing of joy.
When they were seated on the launch in their chairs, she let him hold her hand, but she did not talk much at first; only now he understood her silences, and did not worry over them—so great a teacher is love to quicken the perception of man.
He sat there, and gazed at her, and tried to realise that it was really he who was experiencing all this happiness. This wonderful, wonderful woman—and he was her lover.
At last something in her expression of sadness caught his watchful eye, and an ache came into his mind to know where hers had gone.
"Darling," he said tenderly, "mayn't I come there, too?"
She turned towards him—a shadow was in her eyes.
"No, Paul," she said. "Not there. It is a land of rocks and precipices—not for lovers."
"But if you can go—where is the danger for me, my Queen? Or, if there is danger, then it is my place to stand by your side."
"Paul, my sweet Paul," she whispered, while her eyes filled with mist, "I was thinking how fair the world could be, perhaps, if fate allowed one to meet one's mate while there was yet time. Surely two souls together, like you and I, might climb to Paradise doing deeds of greatness by the way. But so much of life is like a rushing torrent tearing along making a course for itself, without power to choose through what country it will pass, until it meets the ocean and is swallowed up and lost. If one could only see—only know in time—could he change the course? Alas! who can tell?"
Her voice was sad, and as ever it wrung Paul's heart.
"My darling one," he said, "don't think of those odd things. Only remember that I am here beside you, and that I love you, love you so—"
"My Paul!" she murmured, and she smiled a strange, sweet smile, "do you know, I find you like a rare violin which hitherto has been used by ordinary musicians to play their popular airs upon, but which is now highly strung and being touched by the bow of an artist who loves it. And oh! the exquisite sounds which are coming, and will yet come forth to enchant the ear, and satisfy the sense. All the capacity is there, Paul, in you, beautiful one—only I must bring it out with my bow of love! And what a progress you have made already—a great, great progress. Think, only a few days ago you had never noticed the colours of this lake, or even these great mountains, they said nothing to you at all except as places to take your exercise upon. Life, for you, was just eating and sleeping and strengthening your muscles." And she laughed softly.
"I know I was a Goth," said Paul. "I can hardly realise it myself, the change that has happened to me. Everything now seems full of joy."
"Your very phrases are altered, Paul, and will alter more yet, while our moon waxes and our love grows."
"Can it grow? Can I possibly love you more intensely than I do now—surely no!" he exclaimed passionately. "And yet—"
"And yet?"
"Ah! yes, I know it. Yes, it can grow until it is my life—my very life."
"Yes, Paul," she said, "your life"—and her strange eyes narrowed again, the Sphinx's inscrutable look of mystery in their chameleon depths.
Then her mood altered, she became gay and laughing, and her wit sparkled like dry champagne, while the white launch glided through the blue waters with never a swirl of foam.
"Paul," she said presently, "to-morrow we will go up the Rigi to theKaltbad, and look from the little kiosk over the world, and over theBernese Oberland. It gives me an emotion to stand so high and see so vasta view—but to-day we will play on the water and among the trees."
He had no desires except to do what she would do, so they landed for lunch at one of the many little inviting hotels which border the lake in sheltered bays. All through the meal she entertained him with subtle flattery, drawing him out, and making him shine until he made flint for her steel. And when they came to the end she said with sudden, tender sweetness:
"Paul—it is my caprice—you may pay the bill to-day—just for to-day—because—Ah! you must guess, my Paul! the reason why!"
And she ran out into the sunlight, her cheeks bright pink.
But Paul knew it was because now shebelongedto him. His heart swelled with joy—and who so proud as he?
She had gone alone up a mountain path when he came out to join her, and stood there laughing at him provokingly from above. He bounded up and caught her, and would walk hand in hand, and made her feel that he was master and lord through the strength of his splendid, vigorous youth. He pretended to scold her if she stirred from him, and made her stand or walk and obey him, and gave himself the airs of a husband and prince.
And the lady laughed in pure ecstatic joy. "Oh! I love you, my Paul—like this, like this! Beautiful one! Just a splendid primitive savage beneath the grace, as a man should be. When I feel how strong you are my heart melts with bliss!"
And Paul, to show her it was true, seized her in his arms, and ran with her, placing her on a high rock, where he made her pay him with kisses and tell him she loved him before he would lift her down.
And it was his lady's caprice, as she said, that this state of things should last all day. But by night time, when they got to Flüelen, the infinite mastery of her mind, and the uncertainty of his hold over her, made her his Queen again, and Paul once more her worshipping slave.
* * * * *
Now, although his master was quite oblivious of posts, Tompson was not, and that Monday he took occasion to go into Lucerne, whence he returned with a pile of letters, which Paul found on again reaching the Bürgenstock, after staying the night at Flüelen in a little hotel.
That had been an experience! His lady quite childish in her glee at the smallness and simplicity of everything.
"Our picnic," she called it to Paul—only it was a wonderfullyrecherchépicnic, as Anna of course had brought everything which was required by heart of sybarite for the passing of a night.
Ah! they had been happy. The Queen had been exquisitely gracious to her slave, and entranced him more deeply than ever. And here at the Bürgenstock, when he got into his room, his letters stared him in the face.
"Damned officiousness!" he said to himself, thinking of Tompson.
He did not want to be reminded of any existence other than the dream of heaven he was now enjoying.
Oh! they were all very real and material, these epistles—quite of earth! One was from his mother. He was enjoying Lucerne, she hoped, and she was longing for his return. She expected he also was craving for his home and horses and dogs. All were well. They—she and his father—were moving up to the town house in Berkeley Square the following week until the end of June, and great preparations were already in contemplation for his twenty-third birthday in July at Verdayne Place. There was no mention of Isabella except a paragraph at the end. Miss Waring was visiting friends at Blackheath, he was informed. Ah, so far away it all seemed! But it brought him back from heaven. The next was his father's writing. Laconic, but to the point. This parent hoped he was not wasting his time—d—d short in life! and that he was cured of his folly for the parson's girl, and found other eyes shone bright. If he wanted more money he was to say so.
Several were from his friends, banal and everyday. And one was from Tremlett, his own groom, and this was full of Moonlighter and—Pike! That gave him just a moment's feeling—Pike! Tremlett had "made so bold" as to have some snapshots done by a friend, and he ventured to send one to his master. The "very pictur'" of the dog, he said, and it was true. Ah! this touched him, this little photograph of Pike.
"Dear little chap," he said to himself as he looked. "My dear little chap."
And then an instantaneous desire to show it to his lady came over him, and he went back to the sitting-room in haste.
There she was—the post had come for her too, it seemed, and she looked up with an expression of concentrated fierceness from a missive she was reading as he entered the room. Her marvellous self-control banished all but love from her eyes after they had rested on him for an instant, but his senses—so fine now—had remarked the first glance, just as his eye had seen the heavy royal crown on the paper as she hastily folded it and threw it carelessly aside.
"Darling!" he said "Oh! look! here is a picture of Pike!"
And if it had been the most important document concerning the fate of nations the lady could not have examined it with more enthralled interest and attention than she did this snapshot photograph of a rough terrier dog.
"What a sweet fellow!" she said. "Look at his eye! so intelligent; look at thatpatte! See, even he is asking one to love him—and I do—I do—"
"Darling!" said Paul in ecstasy, "oh, if we only had him here, wouldn't that be good!"
And he never knew why his lady suddenly threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him with passionate tenderness and love, her eyes soft as a dove's.
"Oh, my Paul," she said, a break in her wonderful voice, whose tones said many things, "my young, darling, English Paul!"
Presently they would drive to see that quaint farm she wanted to show him. The day was very warm, and to rest in the comfortable carriage would be nice. Paul thought so, too. So after a late lunch they started. And once or twice on the drive through the most peaceful and beautiful scenery, a flash of the same fierceness came into the lady's eyes, gazing away over distance as when she had read her letter, and it made Paul wonder and long to ask her why. He never allowed himself to speculate in coherent thought words even as to who she was, or her abode in life. He had given his word, and was an Englishman and would keep it, that was all. But in his subconsciousness there dwelt the conviction that she must be some Queen or Princess of a country south in Europe—half barbaric, half advanced. That she was unhappy and hated it all, he more than divined. It was a proof of the strength of his character that he did not let the terrible thought of inevitable parting mar the bliss of the tangible now. He had promised her to live while the sun of their union shone, and he had the force to keep his word.
But oh! he wished he could drive all care from her path, and that this glorious life should go on for ever.
When they got to the farm in the soft late afternoon light, the most gracious mood came over his lady. It was just a Swiss farmhouse of many storeys, the lower one for the cows and other animals, and the rest for the family and industries. All was clean and in order, with that wonderful outside neatness which makes Swiss châlets look like painted toy houses popped down on the greensward without yard or byre. And these people were well-to-do, and it was the best of its kind.
TheBäuerin, a buxom mother of many little ones, was nursing another not four weeks old, a fat, prosperous infant in its quaint Swiss clothes. Her broad face beamed with pride as she welcomed the gracious lady. Old acquaintances they appeared, and they exchanged greetings. Foreign languages were not Paul's strong point, and he caught not a word of meaning in the Germanpatoisthe good woman talked. But his lady was voluble, and seemed to know each flaxen-haired child by name, though it was the infant which longest arrested her attention. She held it in her arms. And Paul had never seen her look so young or so beautiful.
The good woman left them alone while she prepared some coffee for them in the adjoining kitchen, followed by her troop ofkinder. Only the little one still lay in the lady's arms. She spoke not a word—she sang to it a cradle-song, and the thought came to Paul that she seemed as an angel, and this must be an echo of his own early heaven before his life had descended to earth.
A strange peace came over him as he sat there watching her, his thoughts vague and dreamy of some beautiful sweet tenderness—he knew not what.
Ere the woman returned with the coffee the lady looked up from her crooning and met his eyes—all her soul was aglow in hers—while she whispered as he bent over to meet her lips:
"Yes, some day, my sweetheart—yes."
And that magic current of sympathy which was between them made Paul know what she meant. And the gladness of the gods fell upon him and exalted him, and his blue eyes swam with tears.
Ah! that was a thought, if that could ever be!
All the way back in the carriage he could only kiss her. Their emotion seemed too deep for words.
And this night was the most divine of any they had spent on the Bürgenstock. But there was in it an essence about which only the angels could write.
Do you know the Belvedere at the Rigi Kaltbad, looking over the corner to a vast world below, on a fair day in May, when the air is clear as crystal and the lake ultra-marine? When the Bernese Oberland undulates away in unbroken snow, its pure whiteness like cold marble, the shadows grey-blue?
Have you seen the tints of the beeches, of the pines, of the firs, clinging like some cloak of life to the hoary-headed mountains, a reminder that spring is eternal, and youth must have its day, however grey beards and white heads may frown?
Ah—it is good!
And so is the air up there. Hungry and strong and—young.
Paul and his lady stood and looked down in rapt silence. It was giving her, as she said, an emotion, but of what sort he was not sure. They were all alone. No living soul was anywhere in view.
She had been in a mood, all day when she seldom raised her eyes. It reminded him of the first time he had seen her, and wonder grew again in his mind. All the last night her soul had seemed melted into his in a fusion of tenderness and trust, exalted with the exquisite thought of the wish which was between them. And he had felt at last he had fathomed its inmost recess.
But to-day, as he gazed down at her white-rose paleness, the heavy lashes making their violet shadow on her cheek—her red mouth mutinous and full—the conviction came back to him that there were breadths and depths and heights about which he had no conception even. And an ice hand clutched his heart. Of what strange thing was she thinking? leaning over the parapet there, her delicate nostrils quivering now and then.
"Paul," she said at last, "did you ever want to kill any one? Did you ever long to have them there at your mercy, to choke their life out and throw them to hell?"
"Good God, no!" said Paul aghast.
Then at last she looked up at him, and her eyes were black with hate. "Well, I do, Paul. I would like to kill one man on earth—a useless, vicious weakling, too feeble to deserve a fine death—a rotting carrion spoiling God's world and encumbering my path! I would kill him if I could—and more than ever today."
"Oh, my Queen, my Queen!" said Paul, distressed. "Don't say such things—you, my own tender woman and love—"
"Yes, that is one side of me, and the best—but there is another, which he draws forth, and that is the worst. You of calm England do not know what it means—the true passion of hate."
"Can I do nothing for you, beloved?" Paul asked. Here was a phase which he had not yet seen.
"Ah!" she said, bitterly, and threw up her head. "No! his high place protects him. But for his life I would conquer all fate."
"Darling, darling—" said Paul, who knew not what to say.
"But, Paul, if a hair of your head should be hurt, I would kill him myself with these my own hands."
Once Paul had seen two tigers fight in a travelling circus-van which came to Oxford, and now the memory of the scene returned to him when he looked at his lady's face. He had not known a human countenance could express such fierce, terrible rage. A quiver ran through him. Yes, this was no idle boast of an angry woman—he felt those slender hands would indeed be capable of dealing death to any one who robbed her of her mate.
But what passion was here! What force! He had somehow never even dreamt such feelings dwelt in women—or, indeed, in any human creatures out of sensational books. Yet, gazing there at her, he dimly understood that in himself, too, they could rise, were another to take her from him. Yes, he could kill in suchlike case.
They were silent for some moments, each vibrating with passionate thoughts; and then the lady leant over and laid her cheek against the sleeve of his coat.
"Heart of my heart," she said, "I frighten and ruffle you. The women of your country are sweet and soft, but they know not the passion I know, my Paul—the fierceness and madness of love—"
Paul clasped her in his arms.
"It makes me worship you more, my Queen," he said. "Englishwomen would seem like wax dolls now beside you and your exquisite face—they will never again be anything but shadows in my life. It can only hold you, the one goddess and Queen."
Her eyes were suffused with a mist of tenderness, the passion was gone; her head was thrown back against his breast, when suddenly her hand inadvertently touched against the pocket where Dmitry's pistol lay. She started violently, and before he could divine her purpose she snatched the weapon out, and held it up to the light.
Her face went like death, and for a second she leant against the parapet as if she were going to faint.
"Paul," she gasped with white lips, "this is Dmitry's pistol. I know it well. How did you come by it?—tell me, beloved. If he gave it to you, then it means danger, Paul—danger—"
"My darling," said Paul, in his strong young pride "fear nothing, I shall never leave you. I will protect you from any danger in the world, only depend upon me, sweetheart. Nothing can hurt you while I am here."
"Do you think I care asoufor my life?" she said, while she stood straight up again with the majesty of a queen. "Do you think I feared for me—for myself? Oh! no, my own lover, never that! They can kill me when they choose, but they won't; it is you for whom I fear. Only your danger could make me cower, no other in the whole world."
Paul laughed with joy at her speech. "There is nothing to fear at all then, darling," he said. "I can take care of myself, you know. I am an Englishman."
And even in the tumult of her thoughts the lady found time to smile with tender amusement at the young insular arrogance of his last words. An Englishman, forsooth! Of course that meant a kind of god untouched by the failings of other nations. A great rush of pride in him came over her and gladdened her. He was indeed a splendid picture of youth and strength, as he stood there, the sunlight gilding his fair hair, and all the magnificent proportions of his figure thrown into relief against the background of grey stone and sky, aninsouciantesmile on his lips, and all the light of love and self-confidence in his fine blue eyes.
She responded to the fire in them, and appeared to grow comforted and at peace. But all the way back through the wood to the Kalibad Hotel she glanced furtively into the shadows, while she talked gaily as she held Paul's arm.
And he never asked her a question as to where she expected the danger to come from. No anxiety for his own safety troubled him one jot—indeed, an unwonted extra excitement flooded his veins, making him enjoy himself with an added zest.
Dmitry as usual awaited them at the hotel; his face was serene, but when Paul's back was turned for a moment while he lit a cigarette, the lady questioned her servant with whispered fierceness in the Russian tongue. Apparently his answer was satisfactory, for she looked relieved, and presently, seated on the terrace, they had a merry tea—the last they would have on mountain tops, for she broke it gently to Paul that on the morrow she must return to Lucerne. Paul felt as if his heart had stopped beating. Return to Lucerne! O God! not to part—surely not to part—so soon!
"No, no," she said, the thought making her whiten too. "Oh no! my Paul, not that—yet!"
Ah—he could bear anything if it did not mean parting, and he used no arguments to dissuade her. She was his Queen and must surely know best. Only he listened eagerly for details of how matters could be arranged there. Alas! they could never be the same as this glorious time they had had.
"You must wait two days, sweetheart," she said, "before you follow me.Stay still in our nest if you will, but do not come on to Lucerne."
"I could not stand it," said Paul. "Oh! darling, don't kill me with aching for your presence two whole days! It is a lifetime! not to be endured—"
"Impatient one!" she laughed softly. "No—neither could I bear not to see you, sweetheart, but we must not be foolish. You must stay on in our rooms and each morning I will meet you somewhere in the launch. Dmitry knows every inch of the lake, and we can pass most of days thus, happy at last—"
"But the nights!" said Paul, deep distress in his voice. "What on earth do you think I can do with the nights?"
"Spend them in sleep, my beloved one," the lady said, while she smiled a soft fine smile.
But to Paul this idea presented the poorest compensation—and in spite of his will to the contrary his thoughts flew ahead for an instant to the inevitable days and nights when—Ah! no, he could not face the picture. Life would be finished for him when that time came.
The thought of only a temporary parting on the morrow made them cling together for this, their last evening, with almost greater closeness and tenderness than usual. Paul could hardly bear his lady out of his sight, even while she dressed for dinner, when they got back to the Bürgenstock, and twice he came to the door and asked plaintively how long she would be, until Anna took pity on him, and implored to be allowed to ask him to come in while she finished her mistress's hair. And that was a joy to Paul! He sat there by the dressing-table, and played with the things, opening the lids of gold boxes, and sniffing bottles of scent with an air of right and possession which made his lady smile like a purring cat. Then he tried on her rings, but they would only go on to the second joint of his little finger, as he laughingly showed her—and finally he pushed Anna aside, and insisted upon putting the last touches himself to the glorious waves of black hair.
And all the while he teased the maid, and chaffed her in infamous French, to her great delight, while his lady looked at him, whole wells of tenderness deep in her eyes. Paul had adorable ways when he chose. No wonder both mistress and maid should worship him.
The moon was growing larger, her slender contours more developed, and the stars seemed fainter and farther off. Nothing more exquisite could be dreamed of, thought Paul, than the view from their balcony windows, the light on the silver snows. And he would let no thought that it was the last night they would see it together mar the passionate joy of the hours still to be. His lady had never been more sweet; it was as if this wayward Undine had at last found her soul, and lay conquered and unresisting in her lover's strong arms.
Thus in perfect peace and happiness they; passed their last night on theBürgenstock.
The desolation which came over Paul when next day before lunch time he found himself alone on the terrace, looking down vainly trying to distinguish his lady's launch as it glided over the blue waters, seemed unendurable. An intense depression filled his being. It was as if a limb had been torn from him; he felt helpless and incomplete, and his whole soul drawn to Lucerne.
The green trees and the exquisite day seemed to mock him. Alone, alone—with no prospect of seeing his Queen until the morrow, when at eleven he was to meet her at the landing-steps at the foot of thefuniculaire.
But that was to-morrow, and how could he get through to-day?
After an early lunch he climbed to their rock at the summit, and sat there where they had sat together—alone with his thoughts.
And what thoughts!
What was this marvellous thing which had happened to him? A fortnight ago he was in Paris, disgusted with everything around him, and fancying himself in love with Isabella Waring. Poor Isabella! How had such things ever been possible? Why, he was a schoolboy then—a child—an infant! and now he was a man, and knew what life meant in its greatest and best. That was part of the wonder of this lady, with all her intense sensuousness and absence of what European nations call morality; there was yet nothing low or degrading in her influence, its tendency was to exalt and elevate into broad views and logical reasonings. Nothing small would ever again appeal to Paul. His whole outlook was vaster and more full of wide thoughts.
And then among the other emotions in his breast came one of deep gratitude to her. For, apart from her love, had she not given him the royalest gift which mankind could receive—an awakened soul? Like her story of Undine it had truly been born with that first long kiss.
Then his mind flew to their after-kisses, the immense divine bliss of these whole six days.
Was it only six days since they had come there? Six days of Paradise. And surely fate would not part them now. Surely more hours of joy lay in store for them yet. The moon was seven days old—and his lady had said, "While she waxes our love will wax." Thus, even by that calculation, there was still time to live a little longer.
Paul's will was strong. He sternly banished all speculations as to the future. He remembered her counsel of the riddle which lay hidden in the eyes of the Sphinx—to live in the present and quaff life in its full.
He was in a mood of such worship that he could have kissed the grey rock because she had leant against it. And to himself he made vows that, come what might, he would ever try to be worthy of her great spirit and teaching. Dmitry's pistol still lay in his pocket; he took it out and examined it—all six chambers were loaded. A deadly small thing, with a finely engraved stock made in Paris. There was a date scratched. It was about a year old.
What danger could they possibly have dreaded for him?—he almost laughed. He stayed up on the highest point until after the sun had set; somehow he dreaded going back to the rooms where they had been so happy—going back alone! But this was weakness, and he must get over the feeling. After dinner he would spend the evening writing his letters home. But when this solitary meal was over, the moon tempted him out on to the terrace, and there he stayed obsessed with passionate thoughts until he crept in to his lonely couch.
He could not sleep. It had no memories there to comfort him. He got up, and went across the sitting-room to the room his lady had left so lately. Alas! it was all dismantled of her beautiful things. The bed unmade and piled with uncovered hotel pillows, and a large German eiderdown, on top of folded blankets, it all looked ghastly and sad and cold. And more depressed than ever he crept back to his own bed.
Next morning was grey—not raining, but dull grey clouds all over the sky. Not a tempting prospect to spend it in a launch on the lake. A wind, too, swept the water into small rough wavelets. Would she come? The uncertainty was almost agony. He was waiting long before the time appointed, and walked up and down anxiously scanning the direction towards Lucerne.
Yes, that was the launch making its way along, not a moment late. Oh! what joy thrilled his being! He glowed all over—in ten minutes or less he could clasp her hands.
But when the launch came in full view, he perceived no lady was there—only Dmitry's black form stood alone by the chairs.
Paul's heart sank like lead. He could hardly contain his anxiety until the servant stepped ashore and handed him a letter, and this was its contents:
"My beloved one—I am not well to-day—a foolish chill. Nothing of consequence, only the cold wind of the lake I could not face. At one o'clock, when Lucerne is at lunch, come to me by the terrace gate. Come to me, I cannot live without you, Paul."
"What is it, Dmitry?" he said anxiously. "Madame is not ill, is she? Tell me—"
"Not ill—oh no!" the servant said, only Paul must know Madame was of a delicacy at times in the cold weather, and had to be careful of herself. He added, too, that it would be wiser if Paul would lunch early before they started, because, as he explained, it was not for the people of the hotel to know he was there, and how else could he eat?
All of which advice was followed, and at one o'clock they landed at Lucerne, and Paul walked quickly towards his goal, Dmitry in front to see that the way was clear. Yes—there was no one about for the moment, and like ghosts they glided through the little terrace door, and Paul went into the room by the window, while Dmitry held the heavy curtains, and then disappeared.
It was empty—the fact struck a chill note, in spite of the great bowls of flowers and the exquisite scent. His tiger was there, and the velvet pillows of old. All was warm and luxurious, as befitting the shrine of his goddess and Queen. Only he was alone—alone with his thoughts.
An incredible excitement swept through him, his heart beat to suffocation in the longing for her to come. Was it possible—was it true that soon she would be in his arms? A whole world of privation and empty hours to make up for in their first kiss.
Then from behind the screen of the door to her room she came at last—a stately figure in long black draperies, her face startlingly white, and her head wrapped in a mist of black veil. But who can tell of the note of gladness and welcome she put into the two words, "My Paul!"?
And who can tell of the passionate joy of their long, tender embrace, or of their talk of each one's impossible night? His lady, too, had not slept, it appeared. She had cried, she said, and fought with her pillow, and been so wicked to Anna that the good creature had wept. She had torn her fine night raiment, and bitten a handkerchief through! But now he had come, and her soul was at rest. What wonder, when all this was said in his ear with soft, broken sighs and kisses divine, that Paul should feel like a god in his pride!
Then he held her at arms'-length and looked at her face. Yes, it was very pale indeed, and the violet shadows lay under her black lashes. Had she suffered, his darling—was she ill? But no, the fire in her strange eyes gave no look of ill-health.
"I was frightened, my own," he said, "in case you were really not well. I must pet and take care of you all the day. See, you must lie on the sofa among the cushions, and I will sit beside you and soothe you to rest." And he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the couch as if she had been a baby, and settled her there, every touch a caress.
His lady delighted in these exhibitions of his strength. He had grown to understand that he could always affect her when he pretended to dominate her by sheer brute force. She had explained it to him thus one day:
"You see, Paul, a man can always keep a woman loving him if he kiss her enough, and make her feel that there is no use struggling because he is too strong to resist. A woman will stand almost anything from a passionate lover. He may beat her and pain her soft flesh; he may shut her up and deprive her of all other friends—while the motive is raging love and interest in herself on his part, it only makes her love him the more. The reason why women become unfaithful is because the man grows casual, and having awakened a taste for passionate joys, he no longer gratifies them—so she yawns and turns elsewhere."
Well, there was no fear of her doing so if he could help it! He was more than willing to follow this receipt. Indeed, there was something about her so agitating and alluring that he knew in his heart all men would feel the same towards her in a more or less degree, and wild jealousy coursed through his veins at the thought.
"My Paul," she said, "do you know I have a plan in my head that we shall go to Venice?"
"To Venice!" said Paul in delight. "To Venice!"
"Yes—I cannot endure any more of Lucerne, parted from you, with only the prospect of snatched meetings. It is not to be borne. We shall go to that home of strange joy, my lover, and there for a space at least we can live in peace."
Paul asked no better gift of fate. Venice he had always longed to see, and now to see it with her! Ah! the very thought was ecstasy to him, and made the blood bound in his veins.
"When, when, my darling?" he asked. "Tomorrow? When?"
"To-day is Friday," she said. "One must give Dmitry time to make the arrangements and take a palace for us. Shall we say Sunday, Paul? I shall go on Sunday, and you can follow the next day—so by Tuesday evening we shall be together again, not to part until—the end."
"The end?" said Paul, with sinking heart.
"Sweetheart," she whispered, while she drew his face down to hers, "think nothing evil. I said the end—but fate alone knows when that must be. Do not let us force her hand by speculating about it. Remember always to live while we may."
And Paul was more or less comforted, but in moments of silence all through the day he seemed to hear the echo of the words—The End.
It was a beautiful apartment that Dmitry had found for them on the Grand Canal in Venice, in an old palace looking southwest. A convenient door in a side canal cloaked the exit and entry of its inhabitants from curious eyes—had there been any to indulge in curiosity; but in Venice there is a good deal of the feeling of live and let live, and thedolce far nienteof the life is not conducive to an over-anxious interest in the doings of one's neighbours.
Money and intelligence can achieve a number of things in a short space of time, and Dmitry had had both at his command, so everything, including acheffrom Paris and a retinue of Italian servants, was ready when on the Tuesday evening Paul arrived at the station.
What a wonderland it seemed to him, Venice! A wonderland where was awaiting him his heart's delight—more passionately desired than ever after three days of total abstinence.
As after the Friday afternoon he had spent more or less in hiding in the terrace-room, his lady had judged it wiser for him not to come at all to Lucerne, and on the Saturday had met him at a quiet part of the shore of the lake, beyond the landing-steps of thefuniculaire,and for a few short hours they had cruised about on the blue waters—but her sweetest tenderness and ready wit had not been able entirely to eliminate the feeling of unrest which troubled them. And then there were the nights, the miserable evenings and nights of separation. On the Sunday she had departed to Venice, and after she had gone, Paul had returned for one day to Lucerne, leaving again on the Monday, apparently as unacquainted with Madame Zalenska as he had been the first night of his arrival.
He had not seen her since Saturday. Three whole days of anguishing longing. And now in half an hour at least she would be in his arms. The journey through the beautiful scenery from Lucerne had been got through at night—all day from Milan a feverish excitement had dominated him, and prevented his taking any interest in outward surroundings. A magnetic attraction seemed drawing him on—on—to the centre of light and joy—his lady's presence.
Dmitry and an Italian servant awaited his arrival; not an instant's delay for luggage called a halt. Tompson and the Italian were left for that, and Paul departed with his trusty guide.
It was about seven o'clock, the opalescent lights were beginning to show in the sky, and their reflection in the water, as he stooped his tall head to enter the covered gondola. It was all too beautiful and wonderful to take in at once, and then he only wanted wings the sooner to arrive, not eyes to see the passing objects. Afterwards the strange soft cry of the gondoliers and the sights appealed to him; but on this first evening every throb of his being was centred upon the one moment when he should hold his beloved one to his heart.
He could hardly contain his impatience, and walk sedately beside Dmitry when they ascended the great stone staircase—he felt like bounding up three steps at a time. Dmitry had been respectfully silent. Madame was well—that was all he would say. He opened the great double door with a latch-key, and Paul found himself in vast hall almost unfurnished but for some tapestry on the walls, and a huge gilt marriage-chest, and a couple of chairs. It was ill lit, and there was something of decay and gloom in its aspect.
On they went, through other doors to a salon, vast and gloomy too, and then the glory and joy of heaven seemed to spring upon Paul's view when the shrine of the goddess was reached—a smaller room, whose windows faced the Grand Canal, now illuminated by the setting sun in all its splendour, coming in shafts from the balcony blinds. And among the quaintest and most old-world surroundings, mixed with her own wonderful personal notes of luxury, his lady rose from the tiger couch to meet him.
His lady! His Queen!
And, indeed, she seemed a queen when at last he held her at arms'-length to look at her. She was garbed all ready for dinner in a marvellous garment of shimmering purple, while round her shoulders a scarf of brilliant pale emerald gauze, all fringed with gold, fell in two long ends, and on her neck and in her ears great emeralds gleamed—a pear-shaped one of unusual brilliancy fell at the parting of her waves of hair on to her white smooth forehead. But the colour of her eyes he could not be sure of—only they were two wells of love and passion gazing into his own.
All the simplicity of the Bürgenstock surroundings was gone. The flowers were in the greatest profusion, rare and heavy-scented; the pillows of the couch were more splendid than ever; cloths of gold and silver and wonderful shades of orange and green velvet were among the purple ones he already knew. Priceless pieces of brocade interwoven with gold covered the screens and other couches; and, near enough to pick up when she wanted them, stood jewelled boxes of cigarettes and bonbons, and stands of perfume.
Her expression, too, was altered. A new mood shone there; and later, when Paul learnt the history of the wonderful women ofcinquecentoVenice, it seemed as if something of their exotic voluptuous spirit now lived in her.
This was a new queen to worship—and die for, if necessary. He dimly felt, even in these first moments, that here he would drink still deeper of the mysteries of life and passionate love.
"Beztzenny-moi,"she said, "my priceless one. At last I have you again to make melive. Ah! I must know it is really you, my Paul!"
They were sitting on the tiger by now, and she undulated round and all over him, feeling his coat, and his face, and his hair, as a blind person might, till at last it seemed as if she were twined about him like a serpent. And every now and then a narrow shaft of the glorious dying sunlight would strike the great emerald on her forehead, and give forth sparks of vivid green which appeared reflected again in her eyes. Paul's head swam, he felt intoxicated with bliss.
"This Venice is for you and me, my Paul," she said. "The air is full of love and dreams; we have left the slender moon behind us in Switzerland; here she is nearing her full, and the summer is upon us with all her richness and completeness—the spring of our love has passed." Her voice fell into its rhythmical cadence, as if she were whispering a prophecy inspired by some presence beyond.
"We will drink deep of the cup of delight, my lover, and bathe in the wine of the gods. We shall feast on the tongues of nightingales, and rest on couches of flowers. And thou shalt cede me thy soul, beloved, and I will give thee mine—"
But the rest was lost in the meeting of their lips.
* * * * *
They dined on the open loggia, its curtains drawn, hiding them from the view of the palaces opposite, but not preventing the soft sounds of the singers in the gondolas moored to the poles beneath from reaching their ears. And above the music now and then would come the faint splash of water, and the "Stahi"—"Premé" of some moving gondolier.
The food was of the richest, beginning with strange fishes and quantities ofhors d'oeuvresthat Paul knew not, accompanied byvodkain several forms. And some of theplatsshe would just taste, and some send instantly away.
And all the while a little fountain of her own perfume played from a group of sportive cupids in silver, while the table in the centre was piled with red roses. Dmitry and two Italian footmen waited, and everything was done with the greatest state. A regal magnificence was in the lady's air and mien. She spoke of the splendours of Venice's past, and let Paul feel the atmosphere of that subtle time of passion and life. Of here a love-scene, and there a murder. Of wisdom and vice, and intoxicating emotion, all blended in a kaleidoscope of gorgeousness and colour.
And once again her vast knowledge came as a fresh wonder to Paul—no smallest detail of history seemed wanting in her talk, so that he lived again in that old world and felt himself a Doge.
When they were alone at last, tasting the golden wine, she rose and drew him to the loggia balustrade. Dmitry had drawn back the curtains and extinguished the lights, and only the brilliant moon lit the scene; a splendid moon, two nights from the full. There she shone straight down upon them to welcome them to this City of Romance.
What loveliness met Paul's view! A loveliness in which art and nature blended in one satisfying whole.
"Darling," he said, "this is better than the Bürgenstock. Let us go out on the water and float about, too."
It was exceedingly warm these last days of May, and that night not a zephyr stirred a ripple. A cloak and scarf of black gauze soon hid the lady's splendour, and they descended the staircase hand in hand to the waiting open gondola.
It was a new experience of joy for Paul to recline there, and drift away down the stream, amidst the music and the coloured lanterns, and the wonderful, wonderful spell of the place.
The lady was silent for a while, and then she began to whisper passionate words of love. She had never before been thus carried away—and he must say them to her—as he held her hand—burning words, inflaming the imagination and exciting the sense. It seemed as if all the other nights of love were concentrated into this one in its perfect joy.
Who can tell of the wild exaltation which filled Paul? He was no longer just Paul Verdayne, the ordinary young Englishman; he was a god—and this was Olympus.
"Look, Paul!" she said at last. "Can you not see Desdemona peeping from the balcony of her house there? And to think she will have no happiness before her Moor will strangle her to-night! Death without joys. Ah! that is cruel. Some joys are well worth death, are they not, my lover, as you and I should know?"
"Worth death and eternity," said Paul. "For one such night as this with you a man would sell his soul."
It was not until they turned at the opening of the Guidecca to return to their palazzo that they both became aware of another gondola following them, always at the same distance behind—a gondola with two solitary figures in it huddled on the seats.
The lady gave a whispered order in Italian to her gondolier, who came to a sudden stop, thus forcing the other boat to come much nearer before it, too, arrested its course. There a moonbeam caught the faces of the men as they leant forward to see what had occurred. One of them was Dmitry, and the other a younger man of the pure Kalmuck type whom Paul had never seen.
"Vasili!" exclaimed the lady, in passionate surprise. "Vasili! and they have not told me!"
She trembled all over, while her eyes blazed green flames of anger and excitement. "If it is unnecessary they shall feel the whip for this."
Her cloak had fallen aside a little, disclosing a shimmer of purple garment and flashing emeralds. She looked barbaric, her raven brows knit. It might have been Cleopatra commanding the instant death of an offending slave.
It made Paul's pulses bound, it seemed so of the picture and the night.All was a mad dream of exotic emotion, and this was just an extra note.
But who was Vasili? And what did his presence portend? Something fateful at all events.
The lady did not speak further, only by the quiver of her nostrils and the gleam in her eyes he knew how deeply she was stirred.
Yes, one or the other would feel the whip, if they had been over-zealous in their duties!
It seemed out of sheer defiance of some fate that she decided to go on into the lagoon when they passed San Georgio. It was growing late, and Paul's thoughts had turned to greater joys. He longed to clasp her in his arms, to hold her, and prove her his own. But she sat there, her small head held high, and her eyes fearless and proud—thus he did not dare to plead with her.
But presently, when she perceived the servants were no longer following, her mood changed, the sweetness of the serpent of old Nile fell upon her, and all of love that can be expressed in whispered words and tender hand-clasps, she lavished upon Paul, after ordering the gondolier to hasten back to the palazzo. It seemed as if she, too, could not contain her impatience to be again in her lover's arms.
"I will not question them to-night," she said when they arrived, and she saw Dmitry awaiting her on the steps. "To-night we will live and love at least, my Paul. Live and love in passionate bliss!"
But she could not repress the flash of her eyes which appeared to annihilate the old servant. He fell on his knees with the murmured words of supplication:
"O Imperatorskoye!"And Paul guessed it meant Imperial Highness, and a great wonder grew in his mind.
Their supper was laid in the loggia again, and under the windows the musicians still played and sang a gentle accompaniment to their sighs of love.
But later still Paul learnt what fiercest passion meant, making other memories as moonlight unto sunlight—as water unto wine.
To some natures security hath no charm—the sword of Damocles suspended over their heads adds to their enjoyment of anything. Of such seemed Paul and his lady. It was as if they were snatching astonishing pleasures from the very brink of some danger, none the less in magnitude because unknown.
They did not breakfast until after one o'clock the next day, and then she bade him sleep—sleep on this other loggia where they sat, which gave upon the side canal obliquely, while looking into a small garden of roses and oleanders below. Here were shade and a cool small breeze.
"We are so weary, my beloved one," the lady said. "Let us sleep on these couches of smooth silk, sleep the heavy hours of the afternoon away, and go to the Piazza when the heat of the sun has lessened in measure."
An immense languor was over Paul—he asked nothing better than to rest there in the perfumed shade, near enough to his loved one to be able to stretch out his arm and touch her hair. And soon a sweet sleep claimed him, and all was oblivion and peace.
The lady lay still on her couch for a while, her eyes gleaming between their half-closed lids. But at last, when she saw that Paul indeed slept deeply, she rose stealthily and crept from the place back to the room, the gloomy vast room within, where she summoned Dmitry, and ordered the man she had called Vasili the night before into her presence. He came with cringing diffidence, prostrating himself to the ground before her, and kissing the hem of her dress, mute adoration in his dark eyes, like those of a faithful dog—a great scar showing blue on his bronzed cheek and forehead.
She questioned him imperiously, while he answered humbly in fear. Dmitry stood by, an anxious, strained look on his face, and now and then he put in a word.
Of what danger did they warn her, these two faithful servants? One came from afar for no other purpose, it seemed. Whatever it was she received the news in haughty defiance. She spoke fiercely at first, and they humbled themselves the more. Then Anna appeared, and joined her supplications to theirs, till at last the lady, like a pettish child chasing a brood of tiresome chickens, shooed them all from the room, 'twixt laughter and tears. Then she threw up her arms in rage for a moment, and ran back to the loggia where Paul still slept. Here she sat and looked at him with burning eyes of love.
He was certainly changed in the eighteen days since she had first seen him. His face was thinner, the beautiful lines of youth were drawn with a finer hand. He was paler, too, and a shadow lay under his curly lashes. But even in his sleep it seemed as if his awakened soul had set its seal upon his expression—he had tasted of the knowledge of good and evil now.
The lady crept near him and kissed his hair. Then she flung herself on her own couch, and soon she also slept.
It was six o'clock before they awoke, Paul first—and what was his joy to be able to kneel beside her and watch her for a few seconds before her white lids lifted themselves! An attitude of utter weariness andabandonwas hers. She was as a child tired out with passionate weeping, who had fallen to sleep as she had flung herself down. There was something even pathetic about that proud head laid low upon her clasped arms.
Paul gazed and gazed. How he worshipped her! Wayward, tigerish, beautiful Queen. But never selfish or small. And what great thing had she not done for him—she who must have been able to choose from all the world a lover—and she had chosen him. How poor and narrow were all the thoughts of his former life, everywhere hedged in with foolish prejudice and ignorant certainty. Now all the world should be his lesson-book, and some day he would show her he was worthy of her splendid teaching and belief in him, and her gift of an awakened soul. He bent still lower on his knees, and kissed her feet with deepest reverence. She stirred not. She was so very pale—fear came to him for an instant—and then he kissed her mouth.
Her wonderful eyes unclosed themselves with none of the bewildered stare people often wake with when aroused suddenly. It seemed that even in her sleep she had been conscious of her loved one's presence. Her lips parted in a smile, while her heavy lashes again swept her cheeks.
"Sweetheart," she said, "you could awake me from the dead, I think. But we are living still, my Paul—waste we no more time, in dreams."
They made haste, and were soon in the gondola on their way to the Piazza.
"Paul," she said, with a wave of her hand which included all the beauty around, "I am so glad you only see Venice now, when your eyes can take it in, sweetheart. At first it would have said almost nothing to you," and she smiled playfully. "In fact, my Paul would have spent most of his time in wondering how he could get exercise enough, there being so few places to walk in! He would have bought a nigger boy with a dish for his father, and some Venetian mirrors for his aunts, and perhaps—yes—a piece of Mr. Jesurum's lace for his mother, and some blown glass for his friends. He would have walked through St. Mark's, and thought it was a tumble-down place, with uneven pavements, and he would have noticed there were a 'jolly lot of pigeons' in the square! Then he would have been captious with the food at his hotel, grumbled at the waiters, scolded poor Tompson—and left for Rome!"
"Oh! darling!" said Paul, laughing too, in spite of his protest. "Surely, surely, I never was so bad as that—and yet I expect it is probably true. How can I ever thank you enough for giving me eyes and an understanding?"
"There—there, beloved," she said.
They walked through the Piazza; the pigeons amused Paul, and they stopped and bought corn for them, and fed the greedy creatures, ever ready for the unending largess of strangers. One or two, bolder than the rest, alighted on the lady's hat and shoulder, taking the corn from between her red lips, and Paul felt jealous even of the birds, and drew her on to see the Campanile, still standing then. They looked at it all, they looked at the lion, and finally they entered St. Mark's.
And here Paul held her arm, and gazed with bated breath. It was all so beautiful and wonderful, and new to his eyes. He had scarcely ever been in a Roman Catholic church before, and had not guessed at the gorgeous beauty of this half-Byzantine shrine. They hardly spoke. She did not weary him with details like a guide-book—that would be for his after-life visits—but now he must see it just as a glorious whole.
"They worshipped here, and endowed their temple with gold and jewels," she whispered, "and then they went into the Doge's Palace, and placed a word in the lion's mouth which meant death or destruction to their best friends! A wonderful people, those old Venetians! Sly and fierce—cruel and passionate—but with ever a shrewd smile in their eye, even in their love-affairs. I often ask myself, Paul, if we are not too civilised, we of our time. We think too much of human suffering, and so we cultivate the nerves to suffer more, instead of hardening them. Picture to yourself, in my grandfather's boyhood we had still the serfs! I am of his day, though it is over—I have beaten Dmitry—"
Then she stopped speaking abruptly, as though aware she had localised her nation too much. A strange imperious expression came into her eyes as they met Paul's—almost of defiance.
Paul was moved. He began as if to speak, then he remembered his promise never to question her, and remained silent.
"Yes, my Paul—you have promised, you know," she said. "I am for you, your love—your love—but living or dead you must never seek to know more!"
"Ah!" he cried, "you torture me when you speak like that. 'Living or dead.' My God! that means us both—we stand or fall together."
"Dear one"—her voice fell softly into a note of intense earnestness—"while fate lets us be together—yes—living or dead—but if we must part, then either would be the cause of the death of the other by further seeking—never forget that, my beloved one. Listen"—her eyes took a sudden fierceness—"once I read your English book, 'The Lady and the Tiger.' You remember it, Paul? She must choose which she would give her lover to—death and the tiger, or to another and more beautiful woman. One was left, you understand, to decide the end one's self. It caused question at the moment; some were for one choice, some for the other—but for me there was never any hesitation. I would give you to a thousand tigers sooner than to another woman—just as I would give my life a thousand times for your life, my lover."
"Darling," said Paul, "and I for yours, my fierce, adorable Queen. But why should we speak of terrible things? Are we not happy today, and now, and have you not told me to live while we may?"
"Come!" she said, and they walked on down to the gondola again, and floated away out to the lagoon. But when they were there, far away from the world, she talked in a new strain of earnestness to Paul. He must promise to do something with his life—something useful and great in future years.
"You must not just drift, my Paul, like so many of your countrymen do. You must help to stem the tide of your nation's decadence, and be a strong man. For me, when I read now of England, it seems as if all the hereditary legislators—it is what you call your nobles, eh?—these men have for their motto, like Louis XV.,Après moi le déluge—It will last my time. Paul, wherever I am, it will give me joy for you to be strong and great, sweetheart. I shall know then I have not loved just a beautiful shell, whose mind I was able to light for a time. That is a sadness, Paul, perhaps the greatest of all, to see a soul one has illuminated and awakened to the highest point gradually slipping back to a browsing sheep, to live forla chassealone, and horses, and dogs, with each day no higher aim than its own mean pleasure. Ah, Paul!" she continued with sudden passion, "I would rather you were dead—dead and cold with me, than I should have to feel you were growing arien du tout—a thing who will go down into nothingness, and be forgotten by men!"
Her face was aflame with thefeu sacré. The noble brow and line of her throat will ever remain in Paul's memory as a thing apart in womankind. Who could have small or unworthy thoughts who had known her—this splendid lady?
And his worship grew and grew.