Paul never quite knew how he retraced the distance to the Vseslavitch
mansion. The combined effects of the blow he had received at the hands
of the treacherous servant, the fall at the gate, and the long hours
of mental anguish he had undergone, were quite enough to befog his
brain. He rode back reeling in his saddle, and once in his bed he
stayed there for two days before he was himself again.
When he joined the others at last he found that the household had
recovered its equanimity. They had feared at first some serious
consequences as a result of the fight at the château, with three
people lying dead there. But the Frenchman had apparently decided
that his own precious skin would be safer if the matter were hushed up
with as little ado as possible. He did not know, it appeared, that
Baxter had not been killed by the shot from Boris's revolver, and he
had no wish to admit any connection with that affair. Accordingly, as
Peter learned later, Virot had reported to the authorities that Boris
had shot Madame Estelle and Michael during a fit of jealousy, and
then, seized with remorse, had taken his own life.
The whole bearing of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch and her brother had
changed--Paul noticed that immediately. Now that with Boris's death
the cause of their former disquiet had been removed forever they were
two entirely different persons. It made Paul's heart glad to hear the
buoyant note in Natalie's voice as she talked with them gaily. And
his own spirits rose as well, for now, he thought, the obstacle to his
suit had been brushed aside.
That day passed quickly, for there was much to talk about. Alexis
Vseslavitch was still there, for he had refused to leave while Paul
seemed in any danger. And the four discussed at length the events of
those two memorable nights.
That night Paul went once more with Natalie to the garden. As the soft
night received them in its warm embrace, it seemed to Paul that in
that spot lay all the glory of the earth, and a whole Heaven besides.
For very joy, he could have died while looking into her eyes. How
madly he loved her! How beautiful she was! As he gazed at her pale
face, shining forth from her dark tresses, it seemed to Paul like the
very moon above, gleaming from the dusky clouds. He took her cool
hand and pressed it to his eyes, till the ringing in his heart was
still. All nature seemed enchanted. For a time, Paul could not speak.
He only knew that God had created men to admire the glories of the
world, and that here was a wonderful night--and a no less wonderful
woman.
Once more they sat down upon the bench where they had talked two short
days before--but what a difference! Then his heart was sorely
troubled--now all was peace.
Like a sea of life, Spring covered the world. The snowy blossom-foam
fluttered on the trees; all was bathed in a wondrous hazy glow.
Everywhere miracles were working. And then Paul awoke from his dream
and spoke.
"Natalie!" he said, "I cannot part from you. I have told you that I
love you." And then with moist eyes and flaming lips he cried: "Be
mine--and love me!"
Oh! then fell the evening gold upon Paul's soul! Like a fairy bell
came the sound of her voice upon his ears:
"My Knight of Love," she said, "what wouldst thou have more?"
And at those words, Paul folded her within his arms.
* * * * *
Later as they sat there in the moonlight, she told Paul more of the
unworthy marriage which had been so nearly forced upon her; how Boris
being heir-apparent of a Balkan state--Sovna--had been able to enlist
the help of the Tsar in coercing her. Many of the Sovnian subjects
were Slavs who had emigrated from her own province and the Tsar felt
that such a union would do much toward cementing the friendship
between the two countries. As for Boris, political reasons had little
to do with the suit. Her fortune was all he cared for. And at the
thought of his perfidy, so nearly triumphant, she trembled anew with
horror.
And then as Paul comforted her, he told her with amusement how he had
interpreted the note that she had written him in Paris--that he had
thought her a secret agent of the Dalmatian government.
The lady laughed at that.
"And when, pray, were you disillusioned?" she asked him. "Two days ago
you called me 'Princess'--in the garden here. How did you know that?"
Paul looked at her in amazement.
"Princess!" he repeated. And then he remembered that he had used the
word--as an endearing name, that seemed so well to fit his love.
"What do you mean, my Natalie?" he cried. "Are you really of royal
blood?"
"Yes, Paul," she answered. "You did not know it then? I wanted to
appear to you as a commoner--just a normal, every day woman. And see!
you loved me when you thought I was a mere servant! That is the
wonderful part of it all to me."
Yet Paul's heart sank as the possible meaning of the news started
forth to his consciousness. Was not her rank an impassable barrier
between them? he asked himself. Must he again return to England to
drag out the rest of life alone, with his love the width of a
continent away?
He asked these things with a rush of words that fell from his
trembling lips.
"Ah, Paul!" the lady said, caressingly, "fear not. I am tired of being
only a princess! The world sees but the glittering show of royalty,
and does not know it for the sham it really is. The trappings, the
gorgeous robes that kings and queens assume when they are crowned hide
bleeding hearts and sorrowful breasts. I have seen too much of the
cares of state--the awful tragedy--the bitter grief. Long since I
decided that I would have no more of it. Better a dinner of herbs,
where love is, you know. And so Peter and I came here to this quiet
spot--the old home of my mother--and took her name. And here we
thought to live like simple gentle-folk, till Boris broke rudely into
our Arcadia.
"And now, Paul," she continued, looking up at him with the love-light
shining in her eyes, "the time has come when you may know all.
Forgive me, dear, for the long waiting. But I had to be sure as you
will see."
She drew from her bosom a folded paper and placed it in his hand.
Paul opened it, and saw it was a letter. He held it closer, and then,
in the white moonlight pouring from that Southern sky--great God!--he
saw the writing of his Lady of Long Ago!
And this is what Paul read:
"MY SWEET SISTER:
"I know that I must leave this beautiful earth. Already I
feel beside me, waking as well as sleeping, a mysterious
presence, who lays his cold hand upon my naked breast, and
claims me for his own. It is Death, my Natalie, that stalks
beside me, and that day is not far distant when his icy
fingers will close relentlessly upon my quivering heart--and
it will beat no more.
"Ah! my little one, God keep thee safe from such griefs as I
have borne. But God grant thee the happiness I have also
known.
"And now, child, I must talk to thee as to the woman thou
wilt be when thy dear eyes read these words--a score of
years from now! Thou wilt be a beautiful woman then--and
I--a little dust will still remain, perhaps.
"But, listen. My son, the baby Prince--thou wilt watch over
him with tender care, I know. And then--for thee the time
will pass quickly, while I lie slowly crumbling--before thou
knowest it, almost, he will be a man--and crowned.
"Then, Natalie, thou wilt read this message from the living
dead, for from that time on Paul Verdayne will need thee. He
is my true lover, sweetheart, and when his son is set apart
from his life forever by the necessities of state--then will
he know his hour of greatest need. Search him out, Natalie,
my sister--Paul Verdayne, the Englishman.
"Go to Lucerne, in May (and here followed the name of the
Swiss hotel Paul knew so well) and there thou wilt find him,
without fail.
"Comfort him, I charge thee. It must ever be for thee a
sacred duty. And, child! I would not have my lover left
alone, to go through life with the shadow of his great grief
hanging ever over him. There will still be sunlight in the
world--and love. And Paul will be in his prime.
"Then will it be the high noon of his life. But what of
love, for him? Ah! I scarce dare dream that dream. But
believe this, sweet Natalie, Death would lose half its dread
could I but know that Paul and thou couldst love."
Paul sat like one who saw a vision. Unknowingly he plucked the young
buds from the rose-tree by the bench--and crushed them. Far away
mourned a delirious nightingale; and a weeping willow softly shivered.
The moon looked down from the midst of heaven; the infinite celestial
vault increased until it became yet more infinite; it burned and
breathed; all the earth gleamed with silvery lustre; the air was
wonderful, at once fresh and overpowering, full of sweetness; it was
an ocean of perfumes.
Divine night! Magical night! The forests, full of shade, were
motionless, and cast their vast shadows. The pools were calm; the cold
and darkness of the waters lay mournfully enclosed in the dark walls
of the garden. The virgin thickets of young cherry trees timidly
stretched their roots into the chill earth, and from time to time
shook their leaves, as if they were angry and indignant that the
beautiful Zephyr, the wind of night, glided suddenly toward them and
covered them with kisses.
All the landscape slept. On high all breathed--all was
beautiful--solemn. The vastness and wondrousness possessed Paul's
soul; and crowds of silvery visions emerged softly from their hiding
places. Divine night! Magical night!
Suddenly all came to life; the forests, the pools, the _steppes_. The
majestic voice of the nightingale burst forth again, now in a paeon of
praise. It seemed as if the moon, to listen to it, stood still in the
midst of heaven. Then the song ceased. All was silent.
Paul and his lady rose then, and hand in hand, walking softly as if in
the presence of one that was not dead, but sleeping, they sought the
house together. And as they reached the doorway, Paul saw there for
the first time, inscribed on the lintel in letters of gold, now
strangely silvered in that marvellous light:
"_On thy house will the blessing of the Lord rest for
evermore._"
THE END.
* * * * *