His lady was so intensely _soignée_--that is what pleased Paul. He had
never thought about such things, or noticed them much in other women, but
she was a revelation.
No Roman Empress with her bath of asses' milk could have had a more
wonderful toilet than she. And ever she was illusive, and he never quite
got to the end of her mystery. Always there was a veil, when he least
expected it, and so these hours for the most part were passed at the
boiling-point of excitement and bliss. The experiences of another man's
whole lifetime Paul was going through in the space of days.
It was the Monday following the wet Sunday when an incident happened which
soon came back to him, and gave him food for reflection.
They would spend the day in the launch, she decided, going whither they
wished, stopping here to pick gentians, going there under the shadow of
trees--landing where and when they desired--even sleeping at Flüclen if
the fancy took them to. Anna was sent on with their things in case this
contingency occurred. And earth, water and sky seemed smiling them a
welcome.
Just before they started, Dmitry, after the gentlest tap, noiselessly
entered Paul's room. Paul was selecting some cigars from a box, and looked
up in surprise as the stately servant cautiously closed the door.
"Yes, Dmitry, what is it?" he said half impatiently.
Dmitry advanced, and now Paul saw that he carried something in his hand.
He bowed low with his usual courtly respect. Then he stammered a little as
he began to speak.
The substance of his sentence, Paul gathered, was that the Excellency
would not be inconveniencing himself too much, he hoped, if he would
consent to carry this pistol. A very good pistol, he assured him, which
would take but little room.
Paul's surprise deepened. Carry a pistol in peaceful Switzerland! It
seemed too absurd.
"What on earth for, my friend?" he said.
But Dmitry would give no decided answer, only that it was wiser, when away
from one's home and out with a lady, never to go unarmed. Real anxiety
peeped from his cautious grey eyes.
Did Paul know how to shoot? And would he be pardoned for asking the
Excellency such a question?--but in England, he heard, they dealt little
with revolvers--and this was a point to be assured of.
Yes, Paul knew how to shoot! The idea made him laugh. But now he came to
think of it, he had not had great practice with a revolver, and might not
do so well as with a gun or rifle. But the whole thing seemed so absurd,
he did not think it of much consequence.
"Of course I'll take it to please you, Dmitry," he said, "though I wish
you would tell me why."
However, Dmitry escaped from the room without further words, his finger
upon his lips.
The lady was looking more exquisitely white than usual; she wore soft pale
mauve, and appeared in Paul's eyes a thing of joy.
When they were seated on the launch in their chairs, she let him hold her
hand, but she did not talk much at first; only now he understood her
silences, and did not worry over them--so great a teacher is love to
quicken the perception of man.
He sat there, and gazed at her, and tried to realise that it was really he
who was experiencing all this happiness. This wonderful, wonderful
woman--and he was her lover.
At last something in her expression of sadness caught his watchful eye,
and an ache came into his mind to know where hers had gone.
"Darling," he said tenderly, "mayn't I come there, too?"
She turned towards him--a shadow was in her eyes.
"No, Paul," she said. "Not there. It is a land of rocks and
precipices--not for lovers."
"But if you can go--where is the danger for me, my Queen? Or, if there is
danger, then it is my place to stand by your side."
"Paul, my sweet Paul," she whispered, while her eyes filled with mist, "I
was thinking how fair the world could be, perhaps, if fate allowed one to
meet one's mate while there was yet time. Surely two souls together, like
you and I, might climb to Paradise doing deeds of greatness by the way.
But so much of life is like a rushing torrent tearing along making a
course for itself, without power to choose through what country it will
pass, until it meets the ocean and is swallowed up and lost. If one could
only see--only know in time--could he change the course? Alas! who can
tell?"
Her voice was sad, and as ever it wrung Paul's heart.
"My darling one," he said, "don't think of those odd things. Only remember
that I am here beside you, and that I love you, love you so--"
"My Paul!" she murmured, and she smiled a strange, sweet smile, "do you
know, I find you like a rare violin which hitherto has been used by
ordinary musicians to play their popular airs upon, but which is now
highly strung and being touched by the bow of an artist who loves it. And
oh! the exquisite sounds which are coming, and will yet come forth to
enchant the ear, and satisfy the sense. All the capacity is there, Paul,
in you, beautiful one--only I must bring it out with my bow of love! And
what a progress you have made already--a great, great progress. Think,
only a few days ago you had never noticed the colours of this lake, or
even these great mountains, they said nothing to you at all except as
places to take your exercise upon. Life, for you, was just eating and
sleeping and strengthening your muscles." And she laughed softly.
"I know I was a Goth," said Paul. "I can hardly realise it myself, the
change that has happened to me. Everything now seems full of joy."
"Your very phrases are altered, Paul, and will alter more yet, while our
moon waxes and our love grows."
"Can it grow? Can I possibly love you more intensely than I do now--surely
no!" he exclaimed passionately. "And yet--"
"And yet?"
"Ah! yes, I know it. Yes, it can grow until it is my life--my very life."
"Yes, Paul," she said, "your life"--and her strange eyes narrowed again,
the Sphinx's inscrutable look of mystery in their chameleon depths.
Then her mood altered, she became gay and laughing, and her wit sparkled
like dry champagne, while the white launch glided through the blue waters
with never a swirl of foam.
"Paul," she said presently, "to-morrow we will go up the Rigi to the
Kaltbad, and look from the little kiosk over the world, and over the
Bernese Oberland. It gives me an emotion to stand so high and see so vast
a view--but to-day we will play on the water and among the trees."
He had no desires except to do what she would do, so they landed for lunch
at one of the many little inviting hotels which border the lake in
sheltered bays. All through the meal she entertained him with subtle
flattery, drawing him out, and making him shine until he made flint for
her steel. And when they came to the end she said with sudden, tender
sweetness:
"Paul--it is my caprice--you may pay the bill to-day--just for
to-day--because--Ah! you must guess, my Paul! the reason why!"
And she ran out into the sunlight, her cheeks bright pink.
But Paul knew it was because now she _belonged_ to him. His heart swelled
with joy--and who so proud as he?
She had gone alone up a mountain path when he came out to join her, and
stood there laughing at him provokingly from above. He bounded up and
caught her, and would walk hand in hand, and made her feel that he was
master and lord through the strength of his splendid, vigorous youth. He
pretended to scold her if she stirred from him, and made her stand or walk
and obey him, and gave himself the airs of a husband and prince.
And the lady laughed in pure ecstatic joy. "Oh! I love you, my Paul--like
this, like this! Beautiful one! Just a splendid primitive savage beneath
the grace, as a man should be. When I feel how strong you are my heart
melts with bliss!"
And Paul, to show her it was true, seized her in his arms, and ran with
her, placing her on a high rock, where he made her pay him with kisses and
tell him she loved him before he would lift her down.
And it was his lady's caprice, as she said, that this state of things
should last all day. But by night time, when they got to Flüelen, the
infinite mastery of her mind, and the uncertainty of his hold over her,
made her his Queen again, and Paul once more her worshipping slave.
* * * * *
Now, although his master was quite oblivious of posts, Tompson was not,
and that Monday he took occasion to go into Lucerne, whence he returned
with a pile of letters, which Paul found on again reaching the
Bürgenstock, after staying the night at Flüelen in a little hotel.
That had been an experience! His lady quite childish in her glee at the
smallness and simplicity of everything.
"Our picnic," she called it to Paul--only it was a wonderfully _recherché_
picnic, as Anna of course had brought everything which was required by
heart of sybarite for the passing of a night.
Ah! they had been happy. The Queen had been exquisitely gracious to her
slave, and entranced him more deeply than ever. And here at the
Bürgenstock, when he got into his room, his letters stared him in the
face.
"Damned officiousness!" he said to himself, thinking of Tompson.
He did not want to be reminded of any existence other than the dream of
heaven he was now enjoying.
Oh! they were all very real and material, these epistles--quite of earth!
One was from his mother. He was enjoying Lucerne, she hoped, and she was
longing for his return. She expected he also was craving for his home and
horses and dogs. All were well. They--she and his father--were moving up
to the town house in Berkeley Square the following week until the end of
June, and great preparations were already in contemplation for his
twenty-third birthday in July at Verdayne Place. There was no mention of
Isabella except a paragraph at the end. Miss Waring was visiting friends
at Blackheath, he was informed. Ah, so far away it all seemed! But it
brought him back from heaven. The next was his father's writing. Laconic,
but to the point. This parent hoped he was not wasting his time--d--d
short in life! and that he was cured of his folly for the parson's girl,
and found other eyes shone bright. If he wanted more money he was
to say so.
Several were from his friends, banal and everyday. And one was from
Tremlett, his own groom, and this was full of Moonlighter and--Pike! That
gave him just a moment's feeling--Pike! Tremlett had "made so bold" as to
have some snapshots done by a friend, and he ventured to send one to his
master. The "very pictur'" of the dog, he said, and it was true. Ah! this
touched him, this little photograph of Pike.
"Dear little chap," he said to himself as he looked. "My dear little
chap."
And then an instantaneous desire to show it to his lady came over him, and
he went back to the sitting-room in haste.
There she was--the post had come for her too, it seemed, and she looked up
with an expression of concentrated fierceness from a missive she was
reading as he entered the room. Her marvellous self-control banished all
but love from her eyes after they had rested on him for an instant, but
his senses--so fine now--had remarked the first glance, just as his eye
had seen the heavy royal crown on the paper as she hastily folded it and
threw it carelessly aside.
"Darling!" he said "Oh! look! here is a picture of Pike!"
And if it had been the most important document concerning the fate of
nations the lady could not have examined it with more enthralled interest
and attention than she did this snapshot photograph of a rough terrier
dog.
"What a sweet fellow!" she said. "Look at his eye! so intelligent; look at
that _patte_! See, even he is asking one to love him--and I do--I do--"
"Darling!" said Paul in ecstasy, "oh, if we only had him here, wouldn't
that be good!"
And he never knew why his lady suddenly threw her arms round his neck, and
kissed him with passionate tenderness and love, her eyes soft as a dove's.
"Oh, my Paul," she said, a break in her wonderful voice, whose tones said
many things, "my young, darling, English Paul!"
Presently they would drive to see that quaint farm she wanted to show him.
The day was very warm, and to rest in the comfortable carriage would be
nice. Paul thought so, too. So after a late lunch they started. And once
or twice on the drive through the most peaceful and beautiful scenery, a
flash of the same fierceness came into the lady's eyes, gazing away over
distance as when she had read her letter, and it made Paul wonder and long
to ask her why. He never allowed himself to speculate in coherent thought
words even as to who she was, or her abode in life. He had given his word,
and was an Englishman and would keep it, that was all. But in his
subconsciousness there dwelt the conviction that she must be some Queen or
Princess of a country south in Europe--half barbaric, half advanced. That
she was unhappy and hated it all, he more than divined. It was a proof of
the strength of his character that he did not let the terrible thought of
inevitable parting mar the bliss of the tangible now. He had promised her
to live while the sun of their union shone, and he had the force to keep
his word.
But oh! he wished he could drive all care from her path, and that this
glorious life should go on for ever.
When they got to the farm in the soft late afternoon light, the most
gracious mood came over his lady. It was just a Swiss farmhouse of many
storeys, the lower one for the cows and other animals, and the rest for
the family and industries. All was clean and in order, with that wonderful
outside neatness which makes Swiss châlets look like painted toy houses
popped down on the greensward without yard or byre. And these people were
well-to-do, and it was the best of its kind.
The _Bäuerin_, a buxom mother of many little ones, was nursing another not
four weeks old, a fat, prosperous infant in its quaint Swiss clothes. Her
broad face beamed with pride as she welcomed the gracious lady. Old
acquaintances they appeared, and they exchanged greetings. Foreign
languages were not Paul's strong point, and he caught not a word of
meaning in the German _patois_ the good woman talked. But his lady was
voluble, and seemed to know each flaxen-haired child by name, though it
was the infant which longest arrested her attention. She held it in her
arms. And Paul had never seen her look so young or so beautiful.
The good woman left them alone while she prepared some coffee for them in
the adjoining kitchen, followed by her troop of _kinder_. Only the little
one still lay in the lady's arms. She spoke not a word--she sang to it a
cradle-song, and the thought came to Paul that she seemed as an angel, and
this must be an echo of his own early heaven before his life had descended
to earth.
A strange peace came over him as he sat there watching her, his thoughts
vague and dreamy of some beautiful sweet tenderness--he knew not what.
Ere the woman returned with the coffee the lady looked up from her
crooning and met his eyes--all her soul was aglow in hers--while she
whispered as he bent over to meet her lips:
"Yes, some day, my sweetheart--yes."
And that magic current of sympathy which was between them made Paul know
what she meant. And the gladness of the gods fell upon him and exalted
him, and his blue eyes swam with tears.
Ah! that was a thought, if that could ever be!
All the way back in the carriage he could only kiss her. Their emotion
seemed too deep for words.
And this night was the most divine of any they had spent on the
Bürgenstock. But there was in it an essence about which only the angels
could write.