How the remainder of the evening passed, Paul Zalenska never knew. As he
looked back upon it, during the months that followed, it seemed like
some hideous dream from which he was struggling to awake. He talked, he
smiled, he even laughed, but scarcely of his own volition; it was as
though another personality acted through him.
He was a temperate boy, but that night he drank more champagne than was
good for him. Paul Verdayne was grieved. Not that he censured the lad.
He knew only too well the anguish the Boy was suffering, and he could
not find it in his heart to blame him for the dissipation. And yet
Verdayne also knew how unavailing were all such attempts to drown the
sorrow that had so shocked the Boy's sensitive spirit.
As he gazed regretfully at the Boy across the dinner table, the butler
placed a cablegram before him. Receiving a nod of permission from his
hostess, he hastily tore open the envelope and paled at its contents.
The message was signed by the Verdaynes' solicitor, and read:
_Sir Charles very ill. Come immediately._
* * * * *
Before they left the house, Paul sought Opal for a few last words. There
were no obstacles placed in his way now by anxious parental authority.
He smiled cynically as he noticed how clear the way was made for him,
now that Opal was "safeguarded" by her betrothal.
She drew him to one side, whispering, "Before you judge me too harshly,
Paul, please listen to what I have to say. I feel I have the right to
make this explanation, and you have the right to hear it. Under the
French law, I am legally bound to the Count de Roannes. Fearing that I
might not remain true to a mere verbal pledge--you knew we were engaged,
Paul, for I told you that, last summer--the Count asked that the
betrothal papers be executed before his unavoidable return to Paris.
Knowing no real reason for delay, since it had to come some time, I
consented; but I stipulated that I was to have six months of freedom
before becoming his wife. Arrangements have been made for us all to go
abroad next spring, and we shall be married in Paris. Paul, I did not
tell you this, this afternoon--I could not! I wanted to see you--the
real you--just once more, before you heard the bitter news, for I knew
that after you had heard, you would never look or speak the same to me
again. Oh, Paul, pity me! Pity me when I tell you that I asked for those
six months simply that I might dedicate them to you, and to the burial,
in my memory, of our little dream of love! It was only my little fancy,
Paul! I wanted to play at being constant that long to our dream. I
wanted to wear my six-months' mourning for our still-born love. I
thought it was only a little game of 'pretend' to you, Paul--why should
it be anything else? But it was very real to me."
Her voice broke, and the Boy took her hand in his, tenderly, for his
resentment had long since died away.
"Opal," he faltered, "I no longer know nor care who or what I am. This
experience has taken me out of myself, and set my feet in strange paths.
I had a life to live, Opal, but I have forgotten it in yours. I had
theories, ideals, hopes, aspirations--but I don't know where they are
now, Opal. They are gone--gone with your smile--"
Opal's eyes grew soft with caresses.
"They will come back, Paul--they must come back! They were born in
you--of Truth itself, not of a mere woman. You will forget me, Boy, and
your life will not be the pitiful waste you think. It must not be!"
"I used to think that, Opal. It never seemed to me that life could ever
be an utter waste so long as a man had work to do and the strength and
skill to do it. But now--I'm all at sea! I only know--how--I shall miss
_you!_"
Opal grew thoughtful.
"And how will it be with me?" she said sadly. "I have never learned to
wear a mask. I can't pose. I can't wear 'false smiles that cover an
aching heart.' Perhaps the world may teach me now--but I'm not a
hypocrite--yet!"
"I believe you, Opal! I love you because you are you!"
"And I love you, Paul, because you are you!"
And even then he did not clasp her in his arms, nor attempt it. She was
another's now, and his hands were tied. He must try to control his one
great weakness--the longing for her.
And in the few moments left to them, they talked and cheered each other,
as intimate friends on the eve of a long separation. They both knew now
that they loved--but they also knew that they must part--and forever!
"I love you, Paul," said Opal, "even as you love me. I do not hesitate
to confess it again, because--well, I am not yet his wife. And I want to
give you this one small comfort to help to make you strong to fight and
conquer, and--endure!"
"But, Opal, you are the one woman in the world God meant for me! How can
I face the world without you?"
"Better that you should, Paul, and keep on fancying yourself loving me
always, than that you should have me for a wife, and then weary of me,
as men do weary of their wives!"
"Opal! Never!"
"Oh, but you might, Boy. Most men do. It's their nature, I suppose."
"But it is not _my_ nature, Opal, to grow tired of what I love. I am not
capricious. Why should you think so?"
"But it's human nature, Paul; there is no denying that. To think, Paul,
that we could grow to clasp hands like this--that we could
kiss--actually kiss, Paul, _calmly_, as women kiss each other--that we
could ever rest in each other's arms and grow weary!"
But Paul would not listen. He always would have loved her, always! He
loved her, anyway, and always would, were she a thousand times the
Countess de Roannes, but it was too late! too late!
"Always remember, Paul, wherever you are and whatever you do," went on
Opal, "that I love you. I know it now, and I know how much! Let the
memory of it be an inspiration to you when your spirits flag, and a
consolation when skies are gray, and--Paul--oh, I love you--love
you--that's all! Kiss me--just once--our last goodbye! There can be no
harm in that, when it's for the last time!"
And Paul, with a heart-breaking sob, clasped her in his arms and pressed
his lips to hers as one kisses the face of his beloved dead. He wondered
vaguely why he felt no passion--wondered at the utter languor of the
senses that did not wake even as he pressed his lips to hers. It was not
a woman's body in his arms--but as the sexless form of one long dead and
lost to him forever. It was not passion now--it was love, stripped of
all sensuality, purged of all desire save the longing to endure.
It was the hour of love's supremest triumph--renunciation!