During the Boy's absence that day a new guest had arrived at the little
hotel. A capricious American lady, who had come to Lucerne, "for a day
or two's rest," she said, before proceeding to Paris where an impatient
Count awaited her and his wedding-day.
Yes, Opal was actually in Lucerne, and the suite of rooms once occupied
by the mysterious Madame Zalenska were now given over to the little lady
from over the seas, who, in spite of her diminutive stature, contrived
to impress everybody with a sense of her own importance. She had just
received a letter from her fiancé, an unusually impatient communication,
even from him. He was anxious, he said, for her and his long-delayed
honeymoon. Honeymoon! God help her! Her soul recoiled in horror from the
hideous prospect. Only two days more, she thought, pressing her lips
tightly together. Oh, the horror of it! She dared not think of it, or
she would go mad! But she would not falter. She had told herself that
she was now resigned. She was going to defeat Fate after all!
She had partaken of her dinner, and was standing behind the ivy that
draped the little balcony, watching the moon in its setting of Swiss
skies and mystic landscape. How white and calm and spotless it appeared!
It was not a man's face she saw there--but that of a woman--the face of
a nun in its saintly, virgin purity, suggesting only sweet inspiring
thoughts of the glory of fidelity to duty, of the comfort and peace and
rest that come of renunciation.
Opal clasped her hands together with a thrill of exultation at her own
victory over the love and longings that were never to be fulfilled. A
song of prayer and thanksgiving echoed in her heart over the thought
that she had been strong enough to do her duty and bear the cross that
life had so early laid upon her shoulders. She felt so good--so true--so
pure--so strong to-night. She would make her life, she thought--her life
that could know no personal love--abound in love for all the world, and
be to all it touched a living, breathing benediction.
As she gazed she suddenly noticed a lighted launch on the little lake,
and an inexplicable prescience disturbed the calm of her musings. She
watched, with an intensity she could not have explained, the gradual
approach of the little craft. What did that boat, or its passenger,
matter to her that she should feel such an acute interest in its
movements? Yet something told her it did matter much, and though she
laughed at her superstition, nevertheless her heart listened to it, and
dared not gainsay its insistent whisper.
A young man, straight and tall and lithe, bounded from the launch and
mounted the terrace steps. She saw his clean-cut profile, his
well-groomed appearance, which even in the moonlight was plainly
evident. She noted the regal bearing of his well-knit figure, and she
caught the delicious aroma of the particular brand of cigar Paul always
smoked, as he passed beneath the balcony where she stood.
She turned in very terror and fled to her rooms, pulling the curtains
closer. She shrank like a frightened child upon the couch, her face
white and drawn with fear--of what, she did not know.
After a time--long, terrible hours, it seemed to her--she parted the
curtains with tremulous fingers and looked out again at the sky, and
shuddered. The virgin nun-face had mysteriously changed--the moon that
had looked so pure and spotless was now blood-red with passion.
Opal crept back, pulling the curtains together again, and threw herself
face downward upon the couch. God help her!
* * * * *
Paul Zalenska lingered long over his dinner that night. He was tired and
thoughtful. And he enjoyed sitting at that little table where his father
perhaps sat the night he had first seen her who became his love.
And Paul pictured to himself that first meeting. He tried to imagine
that he was Paul Verdayne, and that shortly his lady would come in with
her stately tread, and take her seat, and be waited upon by her elderly
attendant. Perhaps she would look at him through those long dark lashes
with eyes that seemed not to see. But there was no special table,
to-night, and the Boy felt that the picture was woefully
incomplete--that he had been left out of the scheme of things entirely.
After finishing his meal, he went out, as his father had done, out under
the stars and sat on the little bench under the ivy, and smoked a cigar.
He felt a curious thrill of excitement, quite out of keeping with his
loneliness. Was it just the memory of that old love-story that had
stirred his blood? Why did his pulse leap, his blood race through his
veins like this, his heart rise to his throat and hammer there so
fiercely, so strangely. Only one influence in all the world had ever
done this to him--only one influence--_one woman_--and she was miles and
miles away!
Suddenly, impelled by some force beyond his power of resistance--a sense
of someone's gaze fixed upon him, he raised his eyes to the ivy above
him. There, faint and indistinct in the shadow of the leaves, but quite
unmistakable, he saw the white, frightened face of the girl he loved,
her luminous eyes looking straight down into his.
He sprang to his feet, and pulled himself up by the ivy to the level of
the terrace, but she had vanished and the watching stars danced
mockingly overhead. Was he dreaming? Had that strange old love-story
taken away from him the last remaining shred of sanity? Surely he hadn't
seen Opal! She was in Paris--damn it!--and he clenched his teeth at the
thought--certainly not at Lucerne!
He looked at the windows of that enchanted room. All was darkness and
silence. Cursing himself for a madman, he strode into the hall and
examined the Visitors' List. Suddenly the blood leaped to his face--his
head reeled--his heart beat to suffocation. He was not dreaming, for
there, as plainly as words could be written, was the entry:
_Miss Ledoux and maid, New Orleans, U. S. A._
She was there--in Lucerne!--his Opal!