Now some of you who read will think her death was just, because she was not
a moral woman. But others will hold with Paul she was the noblest lady who
ever wore a crown. And in all cases she is beyond our puny reasonings.
But her work in Paul's heart still lives, and will live to the end of his
life. Although for long months after the agony of that June day, nothing
but hate and passion and misery had the ruling of him.
He could not bear his kind. His father and Captain Grigsby had left the
yacht to him and let him cruise alone. But who can know of the hideous,
ghastly hours that Paul spent then, ever obsessed with this one bitter
thought? Why had he not gone back? Why had he not gone back when that
impulse had seized him? Why had Vasili, and not he, had the satisfaction of
killing this vile slayer of his Queen?
Even the remembrance of his child did not rouse him. It was safe with the
Grand Duke Peter--a king at four months old! But what of sons, or kings or
countries--nothing could make up for the loss of his Queen! And to think
that she had died to save him! Save him from what? A brush with three
besotted drunkards, whom it would have been great joy to kill!
There were moments when Paul went mad with passion, and lay and writhed in
his berth. So long months passed, and at last he dominated himself enough
to come back to his home.
And if the Lady Henrietta had exclaimed that he appeared ill before on his
return, she was dumb now with sorrow at the change. For Paul had looked
upon Medusa's head of horror, and, as well as his heart, his face seemed
turned to stone. He was gentle with his mother, and let her caress him as
much as she would, but nothing any one could say could move him--even
Pike's joyous greeting.
The whole of God's world was his enemy--for was he not alone there, robbed
of his mate? Presently the reaction from this violence came, and an
intense apathy set in. A saltless, tasteless existence. What was Parliament
to him? What was his country or his nation? or even his home? Only the
hunting when it came gave him some relief, and then if the run were fast
enough, or the jumps prodigiously high, or his horses sufficiently fresh to
be difficult, his blood ran again for a brief space. But beyond this life
was hell, and often he was tempted to use that little pistol of Dmitry's,
and end it, and sleep. Only the inherent manly English spirit in him, deep
down somewhere, prevented him.
All this time his father grieved and grieved, and the Lady Henrietta spent
hours in tears and prayer. Sir Charles had told her their son had met with
a great sorrow, and they must bow their heads and leave him in peace, so
there were no more gay young parties at Verdayne Place, and gone for ever
were the visions of the grandchildren. Only Mark Grigsby was a constant
visitor, but then--he knew.
Thus a year passed away, and Paul left on a voyage round the world. An
Englishman's stern duty to be a man at all costs was calling him at
last--bidding him in change of scene to try and overcome the paralysing
dominion of his grief. But as far as that went the experiment proved
futile. If moments came when circumstances did divert him, such as one or
two great storms he happened to come across, and one or two exciting
situations--still, when things were fair and peaceful, back would rush the
ever-living ache. That passionate void and loss for which there seems no
remedy.
Gentle, pleasant women longed to lavish worship upon him, and Paul talked
and was polite, but all their sweetness touched him no more than summer
ripples stir the bottom of a lake. He seemed impervious to any human
influence, though when the look of a mountain or the colour of beech-trees
would remind him of the Bürgenstock anguish as fresh as ever stabbed his
heart. Yet all this while, unknown to himself, his faculties were
developing. He read deeply. He had unconsciously grown to apply his
darling's lucid reasoning to every detail of his judgment of life. It was
as if it had before been written in cypher for him, and she had now given
him the key. His mind was untiring in its efforts to master subjects, as
his splendid physique seemed tireless in all manner of sport.
Thus he saw the world and its peoples, and was an honoured guest among the
great ones of the earth. But the hardness of adamant was in him. He had no
beliefs--no ambitions. He dissected everything with all the pitiless
certainty of a surgeon's cold knife. And if his life contained an aim at
all, it was to get through with it and find oblivion in eternal sleep.
Thoughts of his little son would sometimes come to him, but when they did
he thrust them back, and shut his heart up in a casing of ice.
To feel--was to suffer! That perhaps was his only creed; that and a blind,
sullen rage against fate. This was the lesson his suffering had taught him,
and they were weary years before he knew another side.
The first time he saw a tiger in India was one of the landmarks in the
history of his inner emotions. He had gone to shoot the beasts with a
well-known Rajah, and it had chanced he came upon a magnificent creature at
very close quarters and had shot it on sight. But when it lay dead, its
wonderful body gracefully moving no more, a sickening regret came over
Paul. Of all things in creation none reminded him so forcibly of his lost
worshipped Queen. In a flash came back to him the first day she had lain on
the skin which had been his gift. Out of the jungle her eyes seemed to
gleam. In his ears rang her words, "I know all your feelings and your
passions. And now I have your skin--for the joy of my skin." Yes, she had
loved tigers, and been in sympathy with them always, and here was one whose
joy of life he had ended!
No, he could never kill one more. After this expedition for weeks he was
restless--the incident seemed to have pierced through his carefully
cultivated calm. For days and days, fresh as in the first hours of his
grief, came an infinite sensation of pain--just hideous personal pain.
So time, and his journeys, went on. But no country and no change of scene
could dull Paul's sense of loss, and the great vast terrible finality of
all hope.
The hackneyed phrase would continually ring in his brain of--Never
again--never again! Ah! God! it was true he would hold his beloved
one--never again. And often unavailing rebellion against destiny would rise
up in him, and he would almost go mad and see red once more. Then he would
rush away from civilisation out into the wild.
But these violent emotions were always followed by a heavy, numb lethargy
until some echo or resemblance roused him to suffering again. The scent of
tuberoses caused him anguish unspeakable. One night in New York he was
obliged to leave the opera because a woman he was with wore some in her
dress.
Thus, with all his strong will, there were times when he could not control
himself or his grief.
He had been absent from England for over two years, when the news came to
him far out in America of his Uncle Hubert's death. So he had gone to join
the world of spirits in the vast beyond! Paul did not care! His only
feeling was one of relief. No more fear of hearing, perhaps, some chance
idle word. But he remembered his mother had loved her handsome brother, and
he wrote a tender letter home.
Then something in the Lady Henrietta's answer touched him vaguely and
decided him to return. After all--because life was a black barren waste to
him--what right had he to dim all joy in the two who had given him being?
Yes, he would go back, and try to pick up the threads anew.
There were great quiet rejoicings in his parents' hearts at their son's
third homecoming. And like a wild beast tamed for a time to perform tricks
in a circus, Paul conformed to the ordinary routine. The question of his
entering Parliament was mooted again, but this he put aside. As yet he
could face no ties. He would do his best by staying at home most of the
year--but when that call of anguish was upon him, he must be free once more
to roam.
Then hope began to bloom in the Lady Henrietta's heart as flowers after
rain. Surely this great unknown grief was passing--surely her adored one
would settle down again.