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[Illustration: NATALIE VSESLAVITCH
_From a miniature in the Verdayne collection._]
HIGH NOON
A NEW SEQUEL TO
"THREE WEEKS"
_ANONYMOUS_
NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
1911
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
* * * * *
_FOREWORD_
I must make a confession.
It will not be needed by the many thousands who have lived with me the
wonderful sunrise of Paul's love, and the sad gray morning of his
bereavement. To these friends who, with Paul, loved and mourned his
beautiful Queen and their dear son, the calm peace and serenity of the
high noon of Paul's life will seem but well-deserved happiness.
It is to the others I speak.
In life it is rarely given us to learn the end as well as the
beginning. To tell the whole story is only an author's privilege.
Of the events which made Paul's love-idyl possible, but a mere hint
has been given. If at some future time it seems best, I may tell you
more of them. As far as Paul himself is concerned, you have had but
the first two chapters of his story. Here is the third of the trilogy,
his high noon. And with the sun once more breaking through the clouds
in Paul's heart, we will leave him.
You need not read any more of this book than you wish, since I claim
the privilege of not writing any more than I choose. But if you do
read it through, you will feel with me that the great law of
compensation is once more justified. As sorrow is the fruit of our
mistakes, so everlasting peace should be the reward of our heart's
best endeavor.
Sadness is past; joy comes with High Noon.
"The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen!"
THE AUTHOR.
HIGH NOON
CHAPTER I
It was Springtime in Switzerland! Once more the snow-capped mountains
mirrored their proud heads in sapphire lakes; and on the beeches by
the banks of Lake Lucerne green buds were bursting into leaves.
Everywhere were bright signs of the earth's awakening. _Springtime in
Switzerland!_ And _that_, you know--you young hearts to whom the gods
are kind--is only another way of saying _Paradise_!
Towards Paradise, then, thundered the afternoon express from Paris,
bearing the advance guard of the summer seekers after happiness. But
if the cumbrous coaches carried swiftly onward some gay hearts, some
young lovers to never-to-be-forgotten scenes, one there was among the
throng to whom the world was gray--an English gentleman this, who
gazed indifferently upon the bright vistas flitting past his window.
The _London Times_ reposed unopened by his side; _Punch_, _Le Figaro_,
_Jugend_ had pleased him not and tumbled to the floor unnoticed.
There seemed scant reason for such deep abstraction in one who bore
the outward signs of so vigorous a manhood. Tall, well-formed,
muscular as his faultless clothes half revealed, half hid, his bronzed
face bearing the clear eyes and steady lips of a man much out of
doors, this thoughtful Englishman was indeed a man to catch and hold
attention. No callow youth, was he, but in the prime of life--strong,
clean, distinguished in appearance, with hair slightly silvered at
the temples; a man who had lived fully, women would have said, but who
was now a bit weary of the world.
Small wonder that the smart American girl sitting opposite in the
compartment stared at him with frank interest, or an elegantly gowned
Parisienne _demi-mondaine_ (travelling _incognito_ as the Comtesse de
Boistelle) eyed him tentatively through her lorgnette.
So Sir Paul Verdayne sat that afternoon in a compartment of the
through express, all unconscious of the scrutiny of his fellow
travellers; his heart filled with the dogged determination to face the
future and make the best of it like a true Englishman; somewhat
saddened--yes--but still unbroken in spirit by the sorrows that had
been his.
Many years ago it was, since he had vowed to revisit the Springplace
of his youth, Lucerne, a spot so replete with tender memories, and
each succeeding year had found him making anew his pilgrimage, though
a sombre warp of sorrow was now interwoven in the golden woof of his
young happiness.
This year he had decided should be the last. Not that his devotion to
his beloved Queen had lessened--far from that--but the latent spirit
of action, so innate to true British blood was slowly reasserting
itself. For Paul romance might still remain, but as a thing now past.
He was frank with himself in this respect, and he would be frank with
Isabella Waring too.
One more visit he would pay to the scenes of his love-idyl, to the
place where his beloved _Imperatorskoye_ had come into his life, there
to commune again with her in spirit, there to feel her regal presence,
to seek from her that final supreme consolation which his wounded
heart craved--this was Paul's quest. And then he would return to
England--and Isabella.
It was the consideration of this resolution which shut the flying
scenery from his gaze, which drew fine lines about the corners of his
firm lips, and set his face to such a look of dominant strength as
made the high spirited American girl muse thoughtfully and brought a
touch of colour to the face of the pseudo Countess which was not due
to the artifice of her maid.
Such men are masters of their own.
Paul Verdayne was not a man to shirk responsibilities. It is true,
dark days had come to him, when a crushing burden had well-nigh
smothered him, and a bullet to still his fevered brain had seemed far
sweeter to Paul than all else life might hold for him. But Paul was
strong and young. He learned his lesson well--that Time cures all and
that the scars of sorrow, though they form but slowly, still will heal
with the passing of the years.
Paul was still young and he had much to live for, as the world
reckons. He was rich (a thing not to be lightly held), one of the most
popular M. P.'s in England, and the possessor of a fine old name. It
would be a coward's part, surely, to spend the rest of his life in
bemoaning the dead past. He would take up the duties that lay near at
hand, become the true successor of his respected father, old Sir
Charles, and delight the heart of his fond mother, the Lady Henrietta,
by marrying Isabella Waring, the sweetheart of his boyhood days.
So Paul sat communing with himself as the train rushed noisily on,
sat and settled, as men will, the future which they know not of. Alas
for resolves! Alas for the Lady Henrietta! Alas for Isabella! For
Paul, as for all of us, the mutability of human affairs still existed.
Were it not so, this record never would have been written.