Their return journey was one of quiet. The lady talked little, she
leant back and looked away across the blue lake, often apparently
unconscious of his presence. This troubled Paul. Had he wearied her?
What should he do? He was growing aware of the fact that she was not a
bit like his mother, or Isabella, or any of the other women whom he
knew--people whose moods he had never even speculated about--if they
had any--which he doubted.
Why wouldn't she speak? Had she forgotten him? He felt chilled and
saddened.
At last, as they neared a small bay where another tempting little
chalet-hotel mirrored itself in the clear water, he spoke. A note in
his voice--his charming young voice--as of a child in distress.
"Are--are you cross with me?"
Then she came back from her other world. "Cross with you? Foolish
one! No, I am dreaming. And I forgot that you could not know yet, or
understand. English Paul! who would have me make conversation and
chatter commonplaces or he feels a _gêne!_ See, I will take you
where I have been into this infinite sky and air"--she let her hand
fall on his arm and thrilled him--"look up at Pilatus. Do you see his
head so snowy, and all the delicate shadows upon him, and his look of
mystery? And those dark pines--and the great chasms, and the wild
anger the giants were in when they hurled these huge rocks about? I
have been with them, and you and I seem such little people, Paul. We
cannot throw great rocks about--we are only two small ants in this
grand world."
Paul's face was puzzled, he did not believe in giants. His mind was
not accustomed yet to these flights of speech, he felt stupid and
irritated with himself, and in some way humiliated. The lady leant
over him, her face playfully tender.
"Great blue eyes!" she said. "So pretty, so pretty! What matter
whether they can see or no?" And she touched his lids with her slender
fingers.
Paul quivered in his chair.
"You know!" he gasped. "You make me mad--I----But won't you teach me
to see? No one wants to be blind! Teach me to see with your eyes,
lady--my lady."
"Yes, I will teach you!" she said. "Teach you a number of
things. Together we will put on the hat of darkness and go down into
Hades. We shall taste the apples of the Hesperides--we will rob
Mercure of his sandals--and Gyges of his ring. And one day, Paul--when
together we have fathomed the meaning of it all--what will happen
then, _enfant?_"
Her last word, "_enfant,_" was a caress, and Paul was too
bewildered with joy to answer her for a moment.
"What will happen?" he said at last. "I shall just love you--that's
all!"
Then he remembered Isabella Waring, and suddenly covered his face with
his hands.
They stopped for tea at the quaint châlet-hotel, and after it they
wandered to pick gentians. The lady was sweet and sympathetic and gay;
she ceased startling him with wild fancies; indeed, she spoke of
simple everyday things, and got him to tell her of his home and
Oxford, and his horses and his dogs. And when they arrived at the
subject of Pike, her sympathy drew Paul nearer to her than ever. Of
course she would love Pike if she only knew him! Who could help loving
a dog like Pike? And his master waxed eloquent. Then, when he looked
away, the lady's weird chameleon eyes melted upon him in that strange
tenderness which might have been a mother's watching the gambols of
her babe.
The shadows were quite deep when at last they decided to return to
Lucerne--a small bunch of heaven's own blue flower the only trophy of
the day.
Paul had never enjoyed himself so much in his twenty-three years of
life. And what would the evening bring? Surely more joy. This parting
at the landing could not be good-night!
But as the launch glided nearer and nearer his heart fell, and at last
he could bear the uncertainty no longer.
"And for dinner?" he said. "Won't you dine me, my Princess? Let me be
your host, as you have been mine all to-day."
But a stiffness seemed to fall upon her suddenly--she appeared to have
become a stranger again almost.
"Thank you, no. I cannot dine," she said. "I must write letters--and
go to sleep."
Paul felt an ice-hand clutching his heart. His face became so blank as
to almost pale before her eyes.
She leant forward, and smiled. "Will you be lonely, Paul? Then at ten
o'clock you must come under the ivy and wish me good-night."
And this was all he could gain from her. She landed him to walk back
to the hotel at the same place from which they had embarked, and the
launch struck out again into the lake.
He walked fast, just to be near enough to see her step ashore on to
the hotel wharf, but he could not arrive in time, and her grey figure
disappearing up the terrace steps was all his hungry eyes were
vouchsafed.
The weariness of dinner! What did it matter what the food was? What
did it matter that a new family of quite nice English people had
arrived, and sat near? A fresh young girl and a youth, and a father
and mother. People who would certainly play billiards and probably
bridge. What did anything matter in the world? Time must be got
through, simply got through until ten o'clock--that was all.
At half-past nine he strode out and sat upon the bench. His thoughts
went back in a constant review of the day. How she had looked, where
they had sat, what she had said. Why her eyes seemed green in the wood
and blue on the water. Why her voice had all those tones in it. Why
she had been old and young, and wise and childish. Then he thought of
the story of Undine and the lady's strange, snake's look when she had
said: "I do not know men?--You think not, Paul?"
His heart gave a great bound at the remembrance. He permitted himself
no speculation as to where he was drifting. He just sat there
thrilling in every limb and every sense and every quality of his
brain.
As the clocks chimed the hour something told him she was there above
him, although he heard no sound.
Not a soul was in sight in this quiet corner. He bounded on to the
bench to be nearer--if she should come. If she were there hiding in
the shadows. This was maddening--unbearable. He would climb the
balustrade to see. Then out of the blackest gloom came a laugh of
silver. A soft laugh that was almost a caress. And suddenly she crept
close and leant down over the ivy.
"Paul," she whispered. "I have come, you see, to wish
you--good-night!"
Paul stood up to his full height. He put out his arms to draw her to
him, but she eluded him and darted aside.
He gave a great sigh of pain.
Slowly she came back and bent over and over of her own accord--so low
that at last she was level with his face. And slowly her red lips
melted into his young lips in a long, strange kiss.
Then, before Paul could grasp her, or murmur one pleading word, she
was gone.
And again he found himself alone, intoxicated with emotion under the
night sky studded with stars.