Nearly a week had passed since Paul reached the Mecca of his
pilgrimage. Other guests at the hotel had seen little of him, except
as they glimpsed him of a morning as he made an early start to some
favourite haunt; or again as he returned at night-fall, to pass
quickly through the chattering groups upon the terrace or about the
hall and retire to his suite, where usually his dinner was served in
solitary state.
His resolutely maintained seclusion was so marked that even his
English friends, accustomed as they were to the exclusiveness of their
kind, commented on it. Barclay openly lamented, for, as he said, "Was
not Sir Paul the best of company when he chose, and why come here to
this gay garden spot to mope?"
Daisy Livingstone, the American girl, from that meeting in the train
had found a peculiar attraction in her big Englishman, as she called
Verdayne playfully when speaking of him to her friends. She knew now,
of course, that he was the famous Sir Paul Verdayne, the personage so
prominent in British public affairs. And she remembered, too, with a
woman's quick intuition for a heart forlorn, Paul's sad, almost
melancholy face.
One balmy evening, as she was slowly strolling back and forth beside
her mother on the terrace, "Mother," she said in a low voice, "why
should Sir Paul look so _triste_? He has everything, apparently, that
a man could wish to make him happy--health, wealth, and a success that
can be the result only of his own efforts. And yet he is not happy.
What hidden sorrow can he have--some grief, I am sure--that should
keep him away from all companions? Every day he goes away alone. And I
have seen him almost every night, coming back to the hotel, only to
disappear in his rooms, where he must spend many lonely hours."
"Really, Daisy, you are much too interested in this Verdayne. When I
was a girl, I never should have paid such close attention to the
humour of a strange man. Don't you think that you are becoming
altogether too attracted by this Englishman?"
Mrs. Livingstone was an old-fashioned mother who was little in
sympathy with the free and easy point of view of radical latter-day
Americans.
"Not at all, mother. I find something to interest me in all the people
here. Sir Paul is merely a distinct type, just as that awful fat
American with the automobile is another in his own way, and that
horrid French creature who goes motoring with him every day."
"Then there is the beautiful dark-haired foreign lady, too--she is
more fascinating to study than all the rest. She must be a Russian
from her colouring, and, besides, she wears those wonderful
embroideries. And her servants, too, talk some outlandish gibberish
among themselves. Of course she belongs to the nobility, you can see
that, even in the way she walks."
"Really, mother, while I'm a true enough American not to be dazzled by
the glamour of a coronet, there is something in a long line of
well-bred ancestry. You know the old saying, 'Blood will tell.' I've
woven quite a fairy story about those wonderful eyes of hers. She is
the princess in the fairy story whom some fine prince will find and
wake up with a kiss. I wonder--perhaps my Englishman--"
She paused, quite carried away by her own fancy.
"Ah! there she is--my fairy princess--now, down there!" and the girl
indicated a rustic seat beneath a spreading cedar some distance below
them. As Daisy chattered on, she and her mother had drawn close to the
edge of the terrace. And there in the gathering dusk, looking out over
the lake, sat the pale-faced lady with the dark hair and the glorious
eyes.
As the two Americans stood gazing down the declivity, a small boat cut
across their line of vision and came up to the slip with a sweep which
only the expert oarsman can achieve.
"The Englishman--Sir Paul!" exclaimed the girl. "You'll see him soon
coming up the path that passes close to the big cedar."
And even as she spoke, the figure that jumped from the skiff started
up the narrow trail. The lady, too, must have been watching him, for
she rose suddenly from her seat and quickly gained the terrace, which
she crossed immediately to enter the hotel.
"Why did she leave when she saw him coming?" the girl asked, quick to
divine the hidden impulse. "Why did she run away like that? I'd rather
have stayed and had a good look at him! I wonder if she doesn't want
him to see her. Now that I think about it, she never stays where he
can meet her."
"Come, child! Don't be absurd!" said Mrs. Livingstone, and locking her
arm within that of her daughter's, she drew gently away.
With lagging steps Paul climbed the hill. The natural quieting effect
of the day spent in tender cherishing of old-time memories had not
been dispelled by his recent violent exercise, and the rustic bench
invited him more than the bustling hotel and the prospect of a dreary
dinner. But he forced himself to his tub and evening clothes, and once
more dined alone. The fixed habits of a lifetime are not to be lightly
set aside for some passing whim.
That night would be Paul's last at Lucerne. The week had been one of
strain, and there had come over him a fatigue scarcely less intense
than he could have felt had he actually experienced anew the scenes he
had been living over in imagination. But with weariness had come a
resignation which at last seemed final--a renunciation of his
dream-life. Now must he put away forever the haunting memories that
seemed always outlined, however, dimly, on the tablets of his brain.
To-morrow he would be speeding on his way westward, to London and
duty. Can we blame Paul if he shrank a bit from defining the latter
too precisely.
He dined very late, and after an hour spent with his cigar, a
newspaper, and letters that demanded attention, he felt the oppression
of the room and stepped out into the night, where myriads of stars
dotted the sky with their bright points. On the bench beneath the
great cedar, a little distance down from the terrace, Paul seated
himself to enjoy a final cigar. The cool air put new life into him; he
felt calmer--more at peace with the world--than had been the case for
many years.
All was settled now. He was sure of his ability to return to England,
to go straight to Isabella and tell her all. That she would marry him,
he had no doubt. Too much of the old fondness still persisted between
them for any other outcome to be possible. Indeed, he could see no
reason why they should not make each other contented.
Paul no longer used the word happy, even in his solitary thoughts.
Happiness, that priceless elusive treasure, can come only to a heart
at peace in the warm sunshine of love. Material things can make for
contentment, but ah! how uncertain is that will-o'-the-wisp happiness.
As he sat pondering over the future, which now lay before him more
definitely almost than he had dared to think, a faint sound caught his
ear--the merest stir as of something moving above him. The stairway
leading from the terrace to the path below formed a partial shelter
for the bench. He turned instinctively, gazing at the landing, but saw
nothing.
He had just decided that his nerves were playing him a trick, when the
sound was repeated. This time he felt sure that some one, some thing,
was stirring close back of him. Again he turned and scanned the flight
of steps, gray in the bright starlight, until suddenly his eyes stood
still. They rested as if stopped by some mysterious compelling
power--some living magnet that seemed to hold them against his will.
And then in the luminous light the delicate outlines of a face seemed
to establish themselves, like a shadowy canvas painted by some fairy
brush.
It was a face Paul knew right well, for it had scarcely left him,
waking or sleeping, for many, many years. Framed in the dark foliage,
it leaned toward him over the parapet, half visible, half obscured.
In a twinkling the weight of a score of years slipped like a cloak
from Paul's shoulders. With a wild, choking cry he leaped to his feet,
and stretching both his arms above him, "My Queen! my Queen!" he
called.
But as he moved the vision vanished. And Paul knew that it was only a
cruel jest of Fate, and himself to be as ever but the plaything of his
evil genius, which never ceased to torture him. Relentlessly the load
of years crept back upon him and like an Old Man of the Sea wound
themselves about his shoulders and clutched him in a viselike grip,
and he sank with a convulsive gasp upon the bench again.
Soon the spasm passed. But for Paul the night was no longer beautiful.
Only unutterable sadness seemed to pervade the place. The very air
seemed heavy with oppressive grief. And rising, he tottered like an
old man around to the foot of the steps and dragged himself slowly up.
He had reached the landing immediately above the bench he had just
quitted when he saw a blur of white--an indistinct patch in the
half-light. He reached forward, and his trembling fingers closed upon
a lady's handkerchief. And then--he caught the faintest breath of a
perfume, strange yet hauntingly familiar, as if the doors of the dead
past had opened for an instant.
Heavens! Her perfume! His brain reeled. He rushed up to his
sitting-room, and there, under the bright light, he examined the
trophy. It was real--there was no doubt about that. Paul had half
fancied that after all it was only another trick of his imagination.
But there lay the scrap of filmy stuff upon his table, as tangible as
the solid oak on which it rested.
He folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. For some moments
he pondered over the strange coincidence, and as he thought, the
clouds lifted from his brain again. If this were chance, surely there
was some consistency in it all. Fortune always sets mile-posts on the
road to her, and with a thrill Paul realized that he was still a young
man and that this tiny suggestion from the destiny which directs poor
mortals' affairs was not to be disregarded. The time for action had
come.
He descended briskly to the hall and scanned the visitors' list. The
names--most of them--meant nothing. Except for Barclay and his party
Paul knew no one in the place. Indeed, he had held himself aloof from
chance acquaintances.
By this time no guests remained about the lounge. In the doorway stood
Monsieur Jacques. Paul went up to him.
"I found a handkerchief outside just now," he said, forcing a careless
voice. "Perhaps the lady to whom it belongs has just come in?"
"No one has entered for a _quart d'heure_, Sir Paul. _Hélas!_ It was
not so in the old days. It was always gay then at this time of the
night, with the band playing and all the guests chattering like mad."
The _maître d'hôtel_ breathed a gentle sigh for the halcyon days of
long ago.
Momentarily baffled, to his rooms Paul turned again, and threw himself
into a big armchair, where he sat wondering till in the gray light of
morning the formless shadows around him took the shape of the
luxurious furnishings of his suite.
What face had peered at him through the branches? In spite of the
token he had found on the steps, Paul could scarcely believe that the
vision had been one of flesh and blood. The handkerchief with the
familiar scent?--merely an odd coincidence. But still--well, the
puzzle might be worth the solving.
At last he rose, and drawing the heavy hangings close to keep out the
insistent light, he lay down upon his bed, to fall into a troubled
sleep.