Her wonderful eyes unclosed themselves with none of the bewildered stare people often wake with when aroused suddenly. It seemed that even in her sleep she had been conscious of her loved one's presence. Her lips parted in a smile, while her heavy lashes again swept her cheeks.

"Sweetheart," she said, "you could awake me from the dead, I think. But we are living still, my Paul—waste we no more time, in dreams."

They made haste, and were soon in the gondola on their way to the Piazza.

"Paul," she said, with a wave of her hand which included all the beauty around, "I am so glad you only see Venice now, when your eyes can take it in, sweetheart. At first it would have said almost nothing to you," and she smiled playfully. "In fact, my Paul would have spent most of his time in wondering how he could get exercise enough, there being so few places to walk in! He would have bought a nigger boy with a dish for his father, and some Venetian mirrors for his aunts, and perhaps—yes—a piece of Mr. Jesurum's lace for his mother, and some blown glass for his friends. He would have walked through St. Mark's, and thought it was a tumble-down place, with uneven pavements, and he would have noticed there were a 'jolly lot of pigeons' in the square! Then he would have been captious with the food at his hotel, grumbled at the waiters, scolded poor Tompson—and left for Rome!"

"Oh! darling!" said Paul, laughing too, in spite of his protest. "Surely, surely, I never was so bad as that—and yet I expect it is probably true. How can I ever thank you enough for giving me eyes and an understanding?"

"There—there, beloved," she said.

They walked through the Piazza; the pigeons amused Paul, and they stopped and bought corn for them, and fed the greedy creatures, ever ready for the unending largess of strangers. One or two, bolder than the rest, alighted on the lady's hat and shoulder, taking the corn from between her red lips, and Paul felt jealous even of the birds, and drew her on to see the Campanile, still standing then. They looked at it all, they looked at the lion, and finally they entered St. Mark's.

And here Paul held her arm, and gazed with bated breath. It was all so beautiful and wonderful, and new to his eyes. He had scarcely ever been in a Roman Catholic church before, and had not guessed at the gorgeous beauty of this half-Byzantine shrine. They hardly spoke. She did not weary him with details like a guide-book—that would be for his after-life visits—but now he must see it just as a glorious whole.

"They worshipped here, and endowed their temple with gold and jewels," she whispered, "and then they went into the Doge's Palace, and placed a word in the lion's mouth which meant death or destruction to their best friends! A wonderful people, those old Venetians! Sly and fierce—cruel and passionate—but with ever a shrewd smile in their eye, even in their love-affairs. I often ask myself, Paul, if we are not too civilised, we of our time. We think too much of human suffering, and so we cultivate the nerves to suffer more, instead of hardening them. Picture to yourself, in my grandfather's boyhood we had still the serfs! I am of his day, though it is over—I have beaten Dmitry—"

Then she stopped speaking abruptly, as though aware she had localised her nation too much. A strange imperious expression came into her eyes as they met Paul's—almost of defiance.

Paul was moved. He began as if to speak, then he remembered his promise never to question her, and remained silent.

"Yes, my Paul—you have promised, you know," she said. "I am for you, your love—your love—but living or dead you must never seek to know more!"

"Ah!" he cried, "you torture me when you speak like that. 'Living or dead.' My God! that means us both—we stand or fall together."

"Dear one"—her voice fell softly into a note of intense earnestness—"while fate lets us be together—yes—living or dead—but if we must part, then either would be the cause of the death of the other by further seeking—never forget that, my beloved one. Listen"—her eyes took a sudden fierceness—"once I read your English book, 'The Lady and the Tiger.' You remember it, Paul? She must choose which she would give her lover to—death and the tiger, or to another and more beautiful woman. One was left, you understand, to decide the end one's self. It caused question at the moment; some were for one choice, some for the other—but for me there was never any hesitation. I would give you to a thousand tigers sooner than to another woman—just as I would give my life a thousand times for your life, my lover."

"Darling," said Paul, "and I for yours, my fierce, adorable Queen. But why should we speak of terrible things? Are we not happy today, and now, and have you not told me to live while we may?"

"Come!" she said, and they walked on down to the gondola again, and floated away out to the lagoon. But when they were there, far away from the world, she talked in a new strain of earnestness to Paul. He must promise to do something with his life—something useful and great in future years.

"You must not just drift, my Paul, like so many of your countrymen do. You must help to stem the tide of your nation's decadence, and be a strong man. For me, when I read now of England, it seems as if all the hereditary legislators—it is what you call your nobles, eh?—these men have for their motto, like Louis XV., Apres moi le deluge—It will last my time. Paul, wherever I am, it will give me joy for you to be strong and great, sweetheart. I shall know then I have not loved just a beautiful shell, whose mind I was able to light for a time. That is a sadness, Paul, perhaps the greatest of all, to see a soul one has illuminated and awakened to the highest point gradually slipping back to a browsing sheep, to live for la chasse alone, and horses, and dogs, with each day no higher aim than its own mean pleasure. Ah, Paul!" she continued with sudden passion, "I would rather you were dead—dead and cold with me, than I should have to feel you were growing a rien du tout—a thing who will go down into nothingness, and be forgotten by men!"

Her face was aflame with the feu sacre. The noble brow and line of her throat will ever remain in Paul's memory as a thing apart in womankind. Who could have small or unworthy thoughts who had known her—this splendid lady?

And his worship grew and grew.



CHAPTER XVII

That night, as they looked from the loggia on the Grand Canal after dinner, the moonlight making things almost light as day, Dmitry begged admittance from the doorway of the great salon. The lady turned imperiously, and flashed upon him. How dared he interrupt their happy hour with things of earth? Then she saw he was loth to speak before Paul, and that his face was grey with fear.

Paul realised the situation, and moved aside, pretending to lean from the wide windows and watch the passing gondolas, his wandering attention, however, fixing itself upon one which was moored not far from the palazzo, and occupied by a solitary figure reclining motionless in the seats. It had no coloured lights, this gondola, or merry musicians; it was just a black object of silence, tenanted by one man.

Dmitry whispered, and the lady listened, a quiver of rage going through her lithe body. Then she turned and surveyed the moored gondola, the same storm of passion and hate in her eyes as once before had come there, at the Rigi Kaltbad Belvedere.

"Shall I kill the miserable spy? Vasili would do it this night," she hissed between her clenched teeth. "But to what end? A day's respite, perhaps, and then another, and another to face."

Dmitry raised an imploring hand to draw her from the wide arched opening, where she must be in full view of those watching below. She motioned him furiously aside, and took Paul's hand. "Come, my lover," she said, "we will look no more on this treacherous stream! It is full of the ghosts of past murders and fears. Let us return to our shrine and shut out all jars; we will sit on our tiger and forget even the moon. Beloved one—come!"

And she led him to the open doorway, but the hand which held his was cold as ice.

A tumult of emotion was dominating Paul. He understood now that danger was near—he guessed they were being watched—but by whom? By the orders of—her husband? Ah! that thought drove him mad with rage—her husband! She—his own—the mate of his soul—of his body and soul—was the legal belonging of somebody else! Some vile man whom she hated and loathed, a "rotting carrion spoiling God's earth." And he—Paul—was powerless to change this fact—was powerless altogether except to love her and die for her if that would be for her good.

"Queen," he said, his voice hoarse with passion and pain, "let us leave Venice—leave Europe altogether—let me take you away to some far land of peace, and live there in safety and joy for the rest of our lives. You would always be the empress of my being and soul."

She flung herself on the tiger couch, and writhed there for some moments, burying her clenched fists in the creature's deep fur. Then she opened wide her arms, and drew Paul to her in a close, passionate embrace.

"Moi-Lioubimyi—My beloved—my darling one!" she whispered in anguish. "If we were lesser persons—yes, we could hide and live for a time in a tent under the stars—but we are not They would track me, and trap us, and sooner or later there would be the end, the ignominious, ordinary end of disgrace—" Then she clasped him closer, and whispered right in his ear in her wonderful voice, now trembling with love.

"Sweetheart—listen! Beyond all of this there is that thought, that hope, ever in my heart that one day a son of ours shall worthily fill a throne, so we must not think of ourselves, my Paul, of the Thou, and the I, and the Now, beloved. A throne which is filled most ignobly at present, and only filled at all through my birth and my family's influence. Think not I want to plant a cheat. No! I have a right to find an heir as I will, a splendid heir who shall redeem the land—the spirit of our two selves given being by love, and endowed by the gods. Ah! think of it, Paul. Dream of this joy and pride, it will help to still the unrest we are both suffering now. It must quiet this wild, useless rage against fate. Is it not so, my lover?"

Her voice touched his very heartstrings, but he was too deeply moved to answer her for a moment. The renewal of this thought exalted his very soul. All that was noble and great in his nature seemed rising up in one glad triumph-song.

A son of his and hers to fill a throne! Ah! God, if that were so!

"I love the English," she whispered. "I have known the men of all nations—but I love the English best. They are straight and just—the fine ones at least. They are brave and fair—and fearless. And our baby Paul shall be the most splendid of any. Beloved one, you must not think me a visionary—a woman dreaming of what might never be—I see it—I know it. This will come to pass as I say, and then we shall both find consolation and rest."

Thus she whispered on until Paul was intoxicated with joy and glory, and forgot time and place and danger and possible parting. A host of triumphant angels seemed singing in his ears.

Then she read him poetry, and let him caress her, and smiled in his arms.

But towards morning, if he had awakened, he would have found his lady prostrate with silent weeping. The intense concentrated grief of a strong nature taking its farewell.



CHAPTER XVIII

Now this Thursday was the night of the full moon. A cloudless morning sky promised a glorious evening.

The lovers woke early, and had their breakfast on the loggia overlooking the oleander garden. The lady was in an enchanting mood of sunshine, and no one could have guessed of the sorrow of her dawn vigil thoughts. She was wayward and playful—one moment petting Paul with exquisite sweetness, the next teasing his curls and biting the lobes of his ears. She never left him for one second—it seemed she must teach him still more subtle caresses, and call forth even new shades of emotion and bliss. All fear was banished, only a brilliant glory remained. She laughed and half-closed her eyes with provoking smiles. She undulated about, creeping as a serpent over her lover, and kissing his eyelids and hair. They were so infinitely happy it was growing to afternoon before they thought of leaving their loggia, and then they started in the open gondola, and glided away through quaint, narrow canals until they came to the lagoon.

"We shall not stay in the gondola long, my Paul," she said. "I cannot bear to be out of your arms, and our palace is fair. And oh! my beloved, to-night I shall feast you as never before. The night of our full moon! Paul, I have ordered a bower of roses and music and song. I want you to remember it the whole of your life."

"As though I could forget a moment of our time, my sweet," said Paul. "It needs no feasts or roses—only whatever delights you to do, delights me too."

"Paul," she cooed after a while, during which her hand had lain in his and there had been a soft silence, "is not this a life of joy, so smooth and gliding, this way of Venice? It seems far from ruffles and storms. I shall love it always, shall not you? and you must come back in other years and study its buildings and its history, Paul—with your new, fine eyes."

"We shall come together, my darling," he answered. "I should never want anything alone."

"Sweetheart!" she cooed again in his ears; and then presently, "Paul," she said, "some day you must read 'Salammbo,' that masterpiece of Flaubert's. There is a spirit of love in that which now you would understand—the love which looked out of Matho's eyes when his body was beaten to jelly. It is the love I have for you, my own—a love 'beyond all words or sense'—as one of your English poets says. Do you know, with the strange irony of things, when a woman's love for a man rises to the highest point there is in it always an element of the wife? However wayward and tigerish and undomestic she may be, she then desires to be the acknowledged possession and belonging of the man, even to her own dishonour. She desires to reproduce his likeness, she wants to compass his material good. She will think of his food, and his raiment, and his well-being, and never of her own—only, if she is wise she will hide all these things in her heart, for the average man cannot stand this great light of her sweetness, and when her love becomes selfless, his love will wane."

"The average man's—yes, perhaps so," agreed Paul. "But then, what does the average person of either sex know of love at all?"

"They think they know," she said. "Really think it, but love like ours happens perhaps once in a century, and generally makes history of some sort—bad or good."

"Let it!" said Paul. "I am like Antony in that poem you read me last night. I must have you for my own, 'Though death, dishonour, anything you will, stand in the way.' He knew what he was talking about, Antony! so did the man who wrote the poem!"

"He was a great sculptor as well as a poet," the lady said. "And yes, he knew all about those wonderful lovers better far than your Shakespeare did, who leaves me quite cold when I read his view of them. Cleopatra was to me so subtle, so splendid a queen."

"Of course she was just you, my heart," said Paul. "You are her soul living over again, and that poem you must give me to keep some day, because it says just what I shall want to say if ever I must be away from you for a time. See, have I remembered it right?

"'Tell her, till I see Those eyes, I do not live—that Rome to me Is hateful,—tell her—oh!—I know not what—That every thought and feeling, space and spot, Is like an ugly dream where she is not; All persons plagues; all living wearisome; All talking empty...'.

"Yes, that is what I should say—I say it to myself now even in the short while I am absent from you dressing!"

The lady's eyes brimmed with tenderness. "Paul!—you do love me, my own!" she said.

"Oh, why can't we go on and travel together, darling?" Paul continued. "I want you to show me the world—at least the best of Europe. In every country you would make me feel the spirit of the place. Let us go to Greece, and see the temples and worship those old gods. They knew about love, did they not?"

The lady leant back and smiled, as if she liked to hear him talk.

"I often ask myself did they really know," she said. "They knew the whole material part of it at any rate. They were perhaps too practical to have indulged in the mental emotions we weave into it now—but they were wise, they did not educate the wives and daughters, they realised that to perform well domestic duties a woman's mind should not be over-trained in learning. Learning and charm and grace of mind were for the others, the hetaerae of whom they asked no tiresome ties. And in all ages it is unfortunately not the simple good women who have ruled the hearts of men. Think of Pericles and Aspasia—Antony and Cleopatra—Justinian and Theodora—Belisarius and Antonina—and later, all the mistresses of the French kings—even, too, your English Nelson and Lady Hamilton! Not one of these was a man's ideal of what a wife and mother ought to be. So no doubt the Greeks were right in that principle, as they were right in all basic principles of art and balance. And now we mix the whole thing up, my Paul—domesticity and learning—nerves and art, and feverish cravings for the impossible new—so we get a conglomeration of false proportions, and a ceaseless unrest."

"Yes," said Paul, and thought of his mother. She was a perfectly domestic and beautiful woman, but somehow he felt sure she had never made his father's heart beat. Then his mind went back to the argument in what the lady had said—he wanted to hear more.

"If this is so, that would prove that all the very clever women of history were immoral—do you mean that?" he asked.

The lady laughed.

"Immoral! It is so quaint a word, my Paul! Each one sees it how they will. For me it is immoral to be false, to be mean, to steal, to cheat, to stoop to low actions and small ends. Yet one can be and do all those things, and if one remains as well the faithful beast of burden to one man, one is counted in the world a moral woman! But that shining light of hypocrisy and virtue—to judge by her sentiments in her writings—your George Eliot, must be classed as immoral because, having chosen her mate without the law's blessing, she yet wrote the highest sentiments of British respectability! To me she was being immoral only because she was deliberately doing what—, again I say, judging by her writings—she felt must be a grievous wrong. That is immoral—deliberately to still one's conscience and indulge in a pleasure against it. But to live a life with one's love, if it engenders the most lofty aspirations, to me is highly moral and good. I feel myself ennobled, exalted, because you are my lover, and our child, when it comes to us, will have a noble mind."

The thought of this, as ever, made Paul thrill; he forgot all other arguments, and a quiver ran through him of intense emotion; his eyes swam and he clasped more tightly her hand. The lady, too, leant back and closed her eyes.

"Oh! the beautiful dream!" she said, "the beautiful, beautiful—certainly! Sweetheart, let us have done with all this philosophising and go back to our palace, where we are happy in the temple of the greatest of all Gods—the God of Love!"

Then she gave the order for home.

But on the way they stopped at Jesurum's, and she supervised Paul's purchases for his mother, and allowed him to buy herself some small gifts. And between them they spent a good deal of money, and laughed over it like happy children. So when they got back to the palazzo there was joy in their hearts like the sunlight of the late afternoon.

She would not let Paul go on to the loggia overlooking the Grand Canal. He had noticed as they passed that some high screens of lilac-bushes had been placed in front of the wide arched openings. No fear of prying eyes from opposite houses now! And yet they were not too high to prevent those in the loggia from seeing the moon and the sky. Their feast was preparing evidently, and he knew it would be a night of the gods.

But from then until it was time to dress for dinner his lady decreed that they should rest in their rooms.

"Thou must sleep, my Paul," she said, "so that thy spirit may be fresh for new joys."

And it was only after hard pleading she would allow him to have it that they rested on the other loggia couches, so that his closing eyes might know her near.



CHAPTER XIX

No Englishwoman would have thought of the details which made the Feast of the Full Moon so wonderful in Paul's eyes. It savoured rather of other centuries and the days of Imperial Rome, and indeed, had his lady been one of Britain's daughters, he too might have found it a little bizarre. As it was, it was all in the note—the exotic note of Venice and her spells.

The lady had gone to her room when he woke on the loggia, and he had only time to dress before the appointed moment when he was to meet her in the little salon.

She was seated on the old Venetian chair she had bought in Lucerne when Paul entered—the most radiant vision he had yet seen. Her garment was pale-green gauze. It seemed to cling in misty folds round her exquisite shape; it was clasped with pearls; the most magnificent ones hung in a row round her throat and fell from her ears. A diadem confined her glorious hair, which descended in the two long strands twisted with chains of emeralds and diamonds. Her whole personality seemed breathing magnificence and panther-like grace. And her eyes glowed with passion, and mystery, and force.

Paul knelt like a courtier, and kissed her hand. Then he led her to their feast.

Dmitry raised the curtain of the loggia door as they approached, and what a sight met Paul's view!

The whole place had been converted into a bower of roses. The walls were entirely covered with them. A great couch of deepest red ones was at one side, fixed in such masses as to be quite resisting and firm. From the roof chains of roses hung, concealing small lights—while from above the screen of lilac-bushes in full bloom the moon in all her glory mingled with the rose-shaded lamps and cast a glamour and unreality over the whole.

The dinner was laid on a table in the centre, and the table was covered with tuberoses and stephanotis, surrounding the cupid fountain of perfume. The scent of all these flowers! And the warm summer night! No wonder Paul's senses quivered with exaltation. No wonder his head swam.

They had scarcely been seated when from the great salon, whose open doors were hidden by falling trellises of roses, there came the exquisite sounds of violins, and a boy's plaintive voice. A concert of all sweet airs played softly to further excite the sense. Paul had not thought such musicians could be obtained in Venice, and guessed, and rightly, that, like the cook and the artist who had designed it, they hailed from Paris, to beautify this night.

Throughout the repast his lady bewildered him with her wild fascination. Never before had she seemed to collect all her moods into one subtle whole, cemented together by passionate love. It truly was a night of the gods, and the exaltation of Paul's spirit had reached its zenith.

"My Paul," she said, when at last only the rare fruits and the golden wine remained, and they were quite alone—even the musicians had retired, and their airs floated up from a gondola below. "My Paul, I want you never to forget this night—never to think of me but as gloriously happy, clasped in your arms amid the roses. And see, we must drink once more together of our wedding wine, and complete our souls' delight."

An eloquence seemed to come to Paul and loosen his tongue, so that he whispered back paeans of worship in language as fine as her own. And the moon flooded the loggia with her light, and the roses gave forth their scent. It was the supreme effort of art and nature to cover them with glorious joy.

"My darling one," the lady whispered in his ear, as she lay in his arms on the couch of roses, crushed deep and half buried in their velvet leaves, "this is our souls' wedding. In life and in death they can never part more."

* * * * *

Dawn was creeping through the orchid blinds of their sleeping chamber when this strange Queen disengaged herself from her lover's embrace, and bent over him, kissing his young curved lips. He stirred not—the languor of utter prostration was upon him, and held him in its grasp. In the uncertain light his sleep looked pale as death.

The lady gazed at him, an anguish too deep for tears in her eyes. For was not this the end—the very end? Fierce, dry sobs shook her. There was something terrible and tigerish in her grief. And yet her will made her not linger—there was still one thing to do.

She rose and turned to the writing-table by the window, then drawing the blind aside a little she began rapidly to write. When she had finished, without reading the missive over, she went and placed it with a flat leather jewel-case on her pillow beside Paul. And soon she commenced a madness of farewells—all restrained and gentle for fear he should awake.

"My love, my love," she wailed between her kisses, "God keep you safe—though He may never bring you back to me."

Then with a wild, strangled sob, she fled from the room.



CHAPTER XX

A hush was over everything when Paul first awoke—the hush of a hot, drowsy noontide.

He stretched out his arm to touch his loved one, as was his custom, to draw her near and envelop her with caresses and greeting—an instinct which came to him while yet half asleep.

But his arm met empty space. What was this? He opened his eyes wide and sat up in bed. He was alone—where had she gone? He had slept so late, that was it. She was playing one of her sweet tricks upon him. Perhaps she was even hiding behind the curtain which covered the entrance to the side loggia where they were accustomed to breakfast. He would look and see. He rose quickly and lifted the heavy drapery. No—the loggia was untenanted, and breakfast was laid for one! That was the first chill—for one! Was she angry at his drowsiness? Good God! what could it mean? He staggered a little, and sat on the bed, clutching the fine sheet. And as he did so it disclosed the letter and the flat leather case, which had fallen from the pillow and become hidden in the clothes.

A deadly faintness came over Paul. For a few seconds he trembled so his shaking fingers refused to hold the paper. Then with a mighty effort he mastered himself, and tearing the envelope open began to read.

It was a wonderful letter. The last passionate cry of her great loving heart. It passed in review their glorious days in burning words—from the first moment of their meeting. And then, towards the end, "My Paul," she wrote, "that first night you were my caprice, and afterwards my love, but now you are my life, and for this I must leave you, to save that life, sweet lover. Seek me not, heart of my heart. Believe me, I would not go if there were any other way. Fate is too strong for us, and I must bow my head. Were I to remain even another hour, all Dmitry's watching could not keep you safe. Darling, while I thought they menaced me alone, it only angered me, but now I know that you would pay the penalty, I can but go. If you follow me, it will mean death for us both. Oh! Paul, I implore you, by our great love, go into safety as soon as you can. You must leave Venice, and return straight to England, and your home. Darling—beloved—lover—if we never meet again in this sad world let this thought stay with you always, that I love you—heart and mind—body and soul—I am utterly and forever YOURS."

As he read the last words the room became dark for Paul, and he fell back like a log on the bed, the paper fluttering to the floor from his nerveless fingers.

She was gone—and life seemed over for him.

Here, perhaps an hour later, Tompson found him still unconscious, and in terrified haste sent off for a doctor, and telegraphed to Sir Charles Verdayne:

"Come at once, TOMPSON."

But ere his father could arrive on Sunday, Paul was lying 'twixt life and death, madly raving with brain fever.

And thus ended the three weeks of his episode.



CHAPTER XXI

Have any of you who read crept back to life from nearly beyond the grave? Crept back to find it shorn of all that made it fair? After hours of delirium to awaken in great weakness to a sense of hideous anguish and loss—to the prospect of days of aching void and hopeless longing, to the hourly, momentary sting of remembrance of things vaster than death, more dear than life itself? If you have come through this valley of the shadow, then you can know what the first days of returning consciousness meant to Paul.

He never really questioned the finality of her decree, he sensed it meant parting for ever. And yet, with that spring of eternal hope which animates all living souls, unbidden arguings and possibilities rose in his enfeebled brain, and deepened his unrest. Thus his progress towards convalescence was long and slow.

And all this time his father and Tompson had nursed him in the old Venetian palazzo with tenderest devotion.

The Italian servants had been left, paid up for a month, but the lady and her Russian retinue had vanished, leaving no trace.

Both Tompson and Sir Charles knew almost the whole story now from Paul's ravings, and neither spoke of it—except that Tompson supplied some links to complete Sir Charles' picture.

"She was the most splendid lady you could wish to see, Sir Charles," the stolid creature finished with. "Her servants worshipped her—and if Mr. Verdayne is ill now, he is ill for no less than a Queen"'

This fact comforted Tompson greatly, but Paul's father found in it no consolation.

The difficulty had been to prevent his mother from descending upon them. She must ever be kept in ignorance of this episode in her son's life. She belonged to the class of intellect which could never have understood. It would have been an undying shock and horrified grief to the end of her life—excellent, loving, conventional lady!

So after the first terrible danger was over, Sir Charles made light of their son's illness. Paul and he were enjoying Venice, he said, and would soon be home. "D—d hard luck the boy getting fever like this!" he wrote in his laconic style, "but one never could trust foreign countries' drains!"

And the Lady Henrietta waited in unsuspecting, well-bred patience.

Those were weary days for every one concerned. It wrung his father's heart to see Paul prostrate there, as weak as an infant. All his splendid youth and strength conquered by this raging blast. It was sad to have to listen to his ever-constant moan:

"Darling, come back to me—darling, my Queen."

And even after he regained consciousness, it was equally pitiful to watch him lying nerveless and white, blue shadows on his once fresh skin. And most pitiful of all were his hands, now veined and transparent, falling idly upon the sheet.

But at least the father realised it could have been no ordinary woman whose going caused the shock which—even after a life of three weeks' continual emotion—could prostrate his young Hercules. She must have been worth something—this tiger Queen.

And one day, contrary to his usual custom, he addressed Tompson:

"What sort of a looking woman, Tompson?"

And Tompson, although an English valet, did not reply, "Who, Sir Charles?" —he just rounded his eyes stolidly and said in his monotonous voice:

"She was that forcible-looking, a man couldn't say when he got close, she kind of dazzled him. She had black hair, and a white face, and—and— witch's eyes, but she was very kind and overpowering, haughty and generous. Any one would have known she was a Queen."

"Young?" asked Sir Charles.

Tompson smoothed his chin: "I could not say, Sir Charles. Some days about twenty-five, and other days past thirty. About thirty-three to thirty-five, I expect she was, if the truth were known."

"Pretty?"

The eyes rounded more and more. "Well, she was so fascinatin', I can't say, Sir Charles—the most lovely lady I ever did see at times, Sir Charles."

"Humph," said Paul's father, and then relapsed into silence.

"She'd a beast of a husband; he might have been a King, but he was no gentleman," Tompson ventured to add presently, fearing the "Humph" perhaps meant disapprobation of this splendid Queen. "Her servants were close, and did not speak good English, so I could not get much out of them, but the man Vasili, who came the last days, did say in a funny lingo, which I had to guess at, as how he expected he should have to kill him some time. Vasili had a scar on his face as long as your finger that he'd got defending the Queen from her husband's brutality, when he was the worse for drink, only last year. And Mr. Verdayne is so handsome. It is no wonder, Sir Charles—"

"That will do, Tompson," said Sir Charles, and he frowned.

The fatal letter, carefully sealed up in a new envelope, and the leather case were in his despatch-box. Tompson had handed them to him on his arrival. And one day when Paul appeared well enough to be lifted into a long chair on the side loggia, his father thought fit to give them to him.

Paul's apathy seemed paralysing. The days had passed, since the little Italian doctor had pronounced him out of danger, in one unending languid quietude. He expressed interest in no single thing. He was polite, and indifferent, and numb.

"He must be roused now," Sir Charles said to the doctor. "It is too hot for Venice, he must be moved to higher air," and the little man had nodded his head.

So this warm late afternoon, as he lay under the mosquito curtains—which the coming of June had made necessary in this paradise—his father said to him:

"I have a letter and a parcel of yours, Paul: you had better look at them—we hope to start north in a day or two—you must get to a more bracing place."

Then he had pushed them under the net-folds, and turned his back on the scene.

The blood rushed to Paul's face, but left him deathly pale after a few moments. And presently he broke the seal. The minute Sphinx in the corner of the paper seemed to mock at him. Indeed, life was a riddle of anguish and pain. He read the letter all over—and read it again. The passionate words of love warmed him now that he had passed the agony of the farewell. One sentence he had hardly grasped before, in particular held balm. "Sweetheart," it said, "you must not grieve—think always of the future and of our hope. Our love is not dead with our parting, and one day there will be the living sign—" Yes, that thought was comfort—but how should he know?

Then he turned to the leather case. His fingers were still so feeble that with difficulty he pressed the spring to open it.

He glanced up at his father's distinguished-looking back outlined against the loggia's opening arches. It appeared uncompromising. A fixed determination to stare at the oleanders below seemed the only spirit animating this parent.

Yes—he must open the box. It gave suddenly with a jerk, and there lay a dog's collar, made of small flexible plates of pure beaten gold, mounted on Russian leather, all of the finest workmanship. And on a slip of paper in his darling's own writing he read:

"This is for Pike, my beloved one; let him wear it always—a gift from me."

On the collar itself, finely engraved, were the words, "Pike, belonging to Paul Verdayne."

Then the floodgates of Paul's numbed soul were opened, a great sob rose in his breast. He covered his face with his hands, and cried like a child.

Oh! her dear thought! her dear, tender thought—for Pike! His little friend!

And Sir Charles made believe he saw nothing, as he stole from the place, his rugged face twitching a little, and his keen eyes dim.



CHAPTER XXII

They did not go north, as Sir Charles intended, an unaccountable reluctance on Paul's part to return through Switzerland changed their plans. Instead, by a fortunate chance, the large schooner yacht of a rather eccentric old friend came in to Venice, and the father eagerly accepted the invitation to go on board and bring his invalid.

The owner, one Captain Grigsby, had been quite alone, so the three men would be in peace, and nothing could be better for Paul than this warm sea air.

"Typhoid fever?" Mark Grigsby had asked.

"No," Sir Charles had replied, "considerable mental tribulation over a woman."

"D—d kittle cattle!" was Captain Grigsby's polite comment. "A fine boy, too, and promising—"

"Appears to have been almost worth while," Sir Charles added, "from what I gather—and, confound it, Grig, we'd have done the same in our day."

But Captain Grigsby only repeated: "D—d kittle cattle!"

And so they weighed anchor, and sailed along the Italian shores of the sun-lit Adriatic.

These were better days for Paul. Each hour brought him back some health and vigour. Youth and strength were asserting their own again, and the absence of familiar objects, and the glory of the air and the blue sea helped sometimes to deaden the poignant agony of his aching heart. But there it was underneath, an ever-present, dull anguish. And only when he became sufficiently strong to help the sailors with the ropes, and exert physical force, did he get one moment's respite. The two elder men watched him with kind, furtive eyes, but they never questioned him, or made the slightest allusion to his travels.

And the first day they heard him laugh Sir Charles looked down at the white foam because a mist was in his eyes.

They had coasted round Italy and Sicily, and not among the Ionian Isles, as had been Captain Grigsby's intention.

"I fancy the lady came from some of those Balkan countries," Sir Charles had said. "Don't let us get in touch with even the outside of one of them."

And Mark Grigsby had grunted an assent.

"The boy is a fine fellow," he said one morning as they looked at Paul hauling ropes. "He'll probably never get quite over this, but he is fighting like a man, Charles—tell me as much as you feel inclined to of the story."

So Sir Charles began in his short, broken sentences:

"Parson's girl to start with—sympathy over a broken collar-bone. The wife behaved unwisely about it, so the boy thought he was in love. We sent him to travel to get rid of that idea. It appears he met this lady in Lucerne—seems to have been an exceptional person—a Russian, Tompson says—a Queen or Princess incog., the fellow tells me—but I can't spot her as yet. Hubert will know who she was, though—but it does not matter—the woman herself was the thing. Gather she was quite a remarkable woman—ten years older than Paul."

"Always the case," growled Captain Grigsby.

Sir Charles puffed at his pipe—and then: "They were only together three weeks," he said. "And during that time she managed to cram more knowledge of everything into the boy's head than you and I have got in a lifetime. Give you my word, Grig, when he was off his chump in the fever, he raved like a poet, and an orator, and he was only an ordinary sportsman when he left home in the spring! Cleopatra, he called her one day, and I fancy that was the keynote—she must have been one of those exceptional women we read of in the sixth form."

"And fortunately never met!" said Captain Grigsby.

"I don't know," mused Sir Charles. "It might have been good to live as wildly even at the price. We've both been about the world, Grig, since the days we fastened on our cuirasses together for the first time, and each thought himself the devil of a fine fellow—but I rather doubt if we now know as much of what is really worth having as my boy there—just twenty-three years old."

"Nonsense!" snapped Captain Grigsby—but there was a tone of regret in his protest.

"Lucky to have got off without a knife or a bullet through him—dangerous nations to grapple with," he said.

"Yes—I gather some pretty heavy menace was over their heads, and that is what made the lady decamp, so we've much to be thankful for," agreed Sir Charles.

"Had she any children?" the other asked.

"Tompson says no. Rotten fellow the husband, it appears, and no heir to the throne, or principality, or whatever it is—so when I have had a talk with Hubert—Henrietta's brother, you know—the one in the Diplomatic Service, it will be easy to locate her—gathered Paul doesn't know himself."

"Pretty romance, anyway. And what will you do with the boy now, Charles?"

Paul's father puffed quite a long while at his meerschaum before he answered, and then his voice was gruffer than ever with tenderness suppressed.

"Give him his head, Grig," he said. "He's true blue underneath, and he'll come up to the collar in time, old friend—only I shall have to keep his mother's love from harrying him. Best and greatest lady in the world, my wife, but she's rather apt to jog the bridle now and then."

At this moment Paul joined them. His paleness showed less than usual beneath the sunburn, and his eyes seemed almost bright. A wave of thankful gladness filled his father's heart.

"Thank God," he said, below his breath. "Thank God."

The weather had been perfection, hardly a drop of rain, and just the gentlest breezes to waft them slowly along. A suitable soothing idle life for one who had but lately been near death. And each day Paul's strength returned, until his father began to hope they might still be home for his birthday the last day of July. They had crept up the coast of Italy now, when an absolute calm fell upon them, and just opposite the temple of Paestum they decided to anchor for the night.

For the last evenings, as the moon had grown larger, Paul had been strangely restless. It seemed as if he preferred to tire himself out with unnecessary rope-pulling, and then retire to his berth the moment that dinner was over, rather than go on deck. His face, too, which had been controlled as a mask until now, wore a look of haunting anguish which was grievous to see. He ate his dinner—or rather, pretended to play with the food—in absolute silence.

Uneasiness overcame Sir Charles, and he glanced at his old friend. But Paul, after lighting a cigar, and letting it out once or twice, rose, and murmuring something about the heat, went up on deck.

It was the night of the full moon—eight weeks exactly since the joy of life had finished for him.

He felt he could not bear even the two kindly gentlemen whose unspoken sympathy he knew was his. He could not bear anything human. To-night, at least, he must be alone with his grief.

All nature was in a mood divine. They were close enough inshore to see the splendid temples clearly with the naked eye. The sky and the sea were of the colour only the Mediterranean knows.

It was hot and still, and the moon in her pure magnificence cast her never-ending spell.

Not a sound of the faintest ripple met his ear. The sailors supped below. All was silence. On one side the vast sea, on the other the shore, with this masterpiece of man's genius, the temple of the great god Poseidon, in this vanished settlement of the old Greeks. How marvellously beautiful it all was, and how his Queen would have loved it! How she would have told him its history and woven round it the spirit of the past, until his living eyes could almost have seen the priests and the people, and heard their worshipping prayers!

His darling had spoken of it once, he remembered, and had told him it was a place they must see. He recollected her very words:

"We must look at it first in the winter from the shore, my Paul, and see those splendid proportions outlined against the sky—so noble and so perfectly balanced—and then we must see it from the sea, with the background of the olive hills. It is ever silent and deserted and calm, and death lurks there after the month of March. A cruel malaria, which we must not face, dear love. But if we could, we ought to see it from a yacht in safety in the summer time, and then the spell would fall upon us, and we would know it was true that rose-trees really grew there which gave the world their blossoms twice a year. That was the legend of the Greeks."

Well, he was seeing it from a yacht, but ah, God! seeing it alone—alone. And where was she?

So intense and vivid was his remembrance of her that he could feel her presence near. If he turned his head, he felt he should see her standing beside him, her strange eyes full of love. The very perfume of her seemed to fill the air—her golden voice to whisper in his ear—her soul to mingle with his soul. Ah yes, in spirit, as she had said, they could never be parted more.

A suppressed moan of anguish escaped his lips, and his father, who had come silently behind him, put his hand on his arm.

"My poor boy," he said, his gruff voice hoarse in his throat, "if only to God I could do something for you!"

"Oh, father!" said Paul.

And the two men looked in each other's eyes, and knew each other as never before.



CHAPTER XXIII

Next day there was a fresh breeze, and they scudded before it on to Naples. Here Paul seemed well enough to take train, and so arrive in England in time for his birthday. He owed this to his mother, he and his father both felt. She had been looking forward to it for so long, as at the time of his coming of age the festivities had been interrupted by the sudden death of his maternal grandfather, and the people had all been promised a continuance of them on this, his twenty-third birthday. So, taking the journey by sufficiently easy stages, sleeping three nights on the way, they calculated to arrive on the eve of the event.

The Lady Henrietta would have everything in readiness for them, and her darling Paul was not to be over-hurried. Only guests of the most congenial kind had been invited, and such a number of nice girls!

The prospect was perfectly delightful, and ought to cause any young man pure joy.

It was with a heart as heavy as lead Paul mounted the broad steps of his ancestral home that summer evening, and was folded in his mother's arms. (The guests were all fortunately dressing for dinner.)

Captain Grigsby had been persuaded to abandon his yacht and accompany them too.

"Yes, I'll come, Charles," he said. "Getting too confoundedly hot in these seas; besides, the boy will want more than one to see him through among those cackling women."

So the three had travelled together through Italy and France—Switzerland had been strictly avoided.

"Paul! darling!" his mother exclaimed, in a voice of pained surprise as she stood back and looked at him. "But surely you have been very ill. My darling, darling son—"

"I told you he had had a sharp attack of fever, Henrietta," interrupted Sir Charles quickly, "and no one looks their best after travelling in this grilling weather. Let the boy get to his bath, and you will see a different person."

But his mother's loving eyes were not to be deceived. So with infinite fuss, and terms of endearment, she insisted upon accompanying her offspring to his room, where the dignified housekeeper was summoned, and his every imaginable and unimaginable want arranged to be supplied.

Once all this would have irritated Paul to the verge of bearish rudeness, but now he only kissed his mother's white jewelled hand. He remembered his lady's tender counsel to him, given in one of their many talks: "You must always reverence your mother, Paul, and accept her worship with love." So now he said:

"Dear mother, it is so good of you, but I'm all right—fever does knock one over a bit, you know. You'll see, though, being at home again will make me perfectly well in no time—and I'll be as good as you like, and eat and drink all Mrs. Elwyn's beef-teas and jellies, and other beastly stuff, if you will just let me dress now, like a darling."

However, his mother was obliged to examine and assure herself that his beautiful hair was still thick and waving—and she had to pause and sigh over every sharpened line of his face and figure—though the thought of being permitted to lavish continuous care for long days to come held a certain consolation for her.

At last Paul was left alone, and there came a moment he had been longing for. He had sent written orders that Tremlett should bring Pike, and leave him in his dressing-room beyond—and all the while his mother had talked he had heard suppressed whines and scratchings. Somehow he had not wanted to see his dog before any of the people; the greeting between himself and his little friend must be in solitude, for was there not a secret link between them in that golden collar given by his Queen?

And Pike would understand—he certainly would understand!

If short, passionate barks, and a madness of wagging tail-stump, accompanied by jumps of crazy joy, could comfort any one—then Paul had his full measure when the door was opened, and this rough white terrier bounded in upon him, and, frantic with welcome and ecstasy, was with difficulty quieted at last in his master's fond arms.

"Oh! Pike, Pike!" Paul said, while tears of weakness flowed down his cheeks. "I can talk to you—and when you wear her collar you will know my Queen—our Queen."

And Pike said everything of sympathy a dog could say. But it was not until late at night, when the interminable evening had been got through, that his master had the pleasure of trying his darling's present on.

That first evening of his homecoming was an ordeal for Paul. He was still feeble, and dead tired from travelling, to begin with—and to have to listen and reply to the endless banalities of his mother's guests was almost more than he could bear.

They were a nice cheery company of mostly young friends. Pretty girls and his own boon companions abounded, and they chaffed and played silly games after dinner—until Paul could have groaned.

Captain Grigsby had eventually caught Sir Charles' eye:

"You will have the boy fainting if you don't get him off alone soon," he said. "These girls would tire a man in strong health!"

And at last Paul had escaped to his own room.

He leant out of his window, and looked at the gibbous moon. Pike was there on the broad sill beside him, under his arm, and he could feel the golden collar on the soft fur neck—a wave of perhaps the most hopeless anguish he had yet felt was upon his spirit now. The unutterable blankness—the impossible vista of the endless days to come, with no prospect of meeting—no aim—no hope. Yes, she had said there was one hope—one hope which could bring peace to their crud unrest. But how and when should he ever know? And if it were so—then more than ever he should be by her side. The number of beautiful things he would want to say to her about it all—the oceans of love he would desire to pour upon her—the tender care which should be his hourly joy. To honour and worship her, and chase all pain away. And he did not even know her name, or the country where one day this hope should reign. That was incredible—and it would be so easy to find out. But he had promised her never to make inquiries, and he would keep his word. He saw her reason now; it had arisen in an instinct of tender protection for himself. She had known if he knew her place of abode no fear of death would keep him from trying to see her. Ah! he had had the tears—and why not the cold steel and blood? It was no price to pay could he but hear once more her golden voice, and feel her loving, twining arms.

He was only held back by the fear of the danger for her. And instead of being with her, and waiting on her footsteps, he should have to spend his next hours with those ridiculous Englishwomen! Those foolish, flippant girls! One had quoted poetry to him at dinner, the very scrap his lady had spoken a line of—this new poet's, who was taking the world of London by storm that year: "Loved with a love beyond all words or sense!" And it had sounded like bathos or sacrilege. What did these dolls know of love, or life? Chattering parrots to weary a man's brain! Yes, the Greeks were right, it would be better to keep them spinning flax, and uneducated.

And so in his young intolerance, maddened by pain, he saw all things gibbous like the mocking moon. Pike stirred under his arm and licked his hand, a faint whine of love making itself heard in the night.

"O God!" said Paul, as he buried his face in his hands, "let me get through this time as she would have me do; let me not show the anguish in my heart, but be at least a man and gentleman."



CHAPTER XXIV

The neighbours and his parents were astonished at the eloquence of Paul's speech at the great dinner given to the tenants next day. No one had guessed at his powers before, and the county papers, and indeed some London reporters, had predicted a splendid political future for this young orator. It had been quite a long speech, and contained sound arguments and common sense, and was expressed in language so lofty and refined that it sent ecstatic admiration through his mother's fond breast.

And all the time Paul spoke he saw no sea of faces below him—only his soul's eyes were looking into those strange chameleon orbs of his lady. He said every word as if she had been there, and at the end it almost seemed she must have heard him, so soft a peace fell on his spirit. Yes, she would have been pleased with her lover, he knew, and that held large grains of consolation. And so these days passed in well-accomplished duty; and at last all the festivities were over, and he could rest.

Captain Grigsby and his father had helped him whenever they could, and an eternal bond of friendship was cemented between the three.

"By Jove, Charles! You ought to be thundering proud of that boy!" Captain Grigsby said the morning of his departure for Scotland on August 10. "He's come up to the scratch like a hero, and whatever the damage, the lady must have been well worth while to turn him out polished like that. Gad! Charles, I'd take a month's journey to see her myself."

And Paul's father grunted with satisfaction as he said: "I told you so."

Thus the summer days went by in the strengthening of Paul's character— trying always to live up to an ideal—trying ever to dominate his grief— but never trying to forget.

By the autumn shooting time his health was quite restored, and except that he looked a year or so older there were no outward traces of the passing through that valley of the shadow, from whence he had escaped with just his life.

But the three weeks of his lady's influence had changed the inner man beyond all recognition. His spirit was stamped with her nameless distinction, and all the vistas she had opened for him to the tree of knowledge he now followed up. No smallest incident of his day seemed unconnected with some thought or wish of hers—so that in truth she still guided and moulded him by the power of her great soul.

But in spite of all these things, the weeks and months held hours of aching longing and increasing anxiety to know how she fared. If she should be ill. If their hope was coming true, then now she must be suffering, and suffering all alone. Sometimes the agony of the thought was more than Paul could bear, and took him off with Pike alone into the leafless woods which crowned a hill at the top of the park. And then he would pause, and look out at the view, and the dull November sky, a madness of agonising unrest torturing his heart.

The one thing he felt glad of was the absence of his Uncle Hubert, who had been made Minister in a South American Republic, and would not return to England for more than a year. So there would be no temptation to question him, or perchance to hear one of his clever, evil jests which might contain some allusion to his lady. Lord Hubert Aldringham was fond of boasting of his royal acquaintances, and was of a mind that found "not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean." Now all Paul could do was to wait and hope. At least his Queen had his address. She could write to him, even though he could not write to her—and surely, surely, some news of her must come.

Thus the winter arrived, and the hunting—hunting that he had been sure was what he liked best in all the world.

And now it just served to pass the time and distract some hours from the anguishing ache by its physical pleasure. But in that, as in everything he did at this time, Paul tried to outshine his fellows, and gain one more laurel to lay at the feet of his Queen. Socially he was having an immense success. He began to be known as some one worth listening to by men, and women hung on his words. It was peculiarly delightful to find so young and beautiful a creature with all the knowledge and fascinating cachet of a man of the world. And then his complete indifference to them piqued and allured them still more. Always polite and chivalrous, but as aloof as a mountain top. Paul had no small vanity to be soothed by their worship into forgetting for one moment his Queen. So his shooting-visits passed, and his experience of life grew.

Isabella had returned at Christmas, engaged to a High Church curate, and beaming with satisfaction and health. And it gave Paul, and indeed them both, pleasure to meet and talk for an hour. She was a good sort always, and if he marvelled to himself how he had even been even mildly attracted by her, he did not let it appear in his manner.

But one thing jarred.

"My goodness, Paul, how smart Pike's collar is!" Isabella had said. "Did you ever! You extravagant boy! It is good enough for a lady's bracelet. You had better give it to me! It will make the finest wedding gift I'll have!"

But Paul had snatched Pike up, the blood burning in his cheeks, and had laughed awkwardly and turned the conversation.

No one's fingers but his own were ever allowed to touch the sacred gold.

About this time his mother began to have the idea he ought really to marry. His father had been thirty at the time of his wedding with herself, and she had always thought that was starting too late. Twenty-three was a good age, and a sweet, gentle wife of Paul's would be the joy of her declining years—to say nothing of several grandchildren. But when this matter was broached to him first, Paul laughed, and when it became a daily subject of conversation, he almost lost that quick temper of his, which was not quite yet under perfect control.

"I tell you what it is, mother," he said, "if you tease me like this I shall go away on a voyage round the world!"

So the Lady Henrietta subsided into pained silence, and sulked with her adored son for more than a day.

"Paul is so unaccountably changed since his visit abroad," she said to her husband plaintively. "I sometimes wonder, Charles, if we really know all the people he met."

And Sir Charles had replied, "Nonsense! Henrietta—the lad is a man now, and immensely improved; do leave him in peace."

But when he was alone the father had smiled to himself—rather sadly—for he saw a good deal with his shrewd eyes, though he said no words of sympathy to his son. He knew that Paul was suffering still, perhaps as keenly as ever, and he honoured his determination to keep it all from view.

So the old year died, and the new one came—and soon February would be here. Ah! with what passionate anxiety the end of that month was awaited by Paul, only his own heart knew.



CHAPTER XXV

The days passed on, March had almost come, and Paul heard nothing. His father noticed the daily look of strain, and his mother anxiously inquired if he were dull, and if he would not like her to have some people to stay, and thus divert him in some fashion. And Paul had answered with what grace he could.

An intense temptation came over him to read all the Court news. He longed to pick up the ladies' papers he saw in his mother's sitting-room; such journals, he knew, delighted to publish the doings of royal lives. But the stern self-control which now he practised in all the ruling of his life prevented him. No, he had promised never to investigate—and neither in the letter, nor the spirit, would he break his word, whatever the suffering. The news, when it came, must be from his beloved one direct.

But oh! the unrest of these hours. Had their hope come true?—and how was she? The days passed in a gnawing anxiety. He was so restless he could hardly fix his attention on anything. It required the whole of his will to keep him taking in the sense of the Parliamentary books which were now his study. The constant query would raise its head between each page—"What news of my Queen?—what news of my Queen?"

Each mail as it came in made his heart beat, and often his hand trembled as he lifted his pile of letters. But no sight of her writing gladdened his eyes, until he began to be like the sea and its tides, rising twice a day in a rushing hope with the posts, and sinking again in disappointment.

He grew to look haggard, and his father's heart ached for him in silence. At length one morning, when he had almost trained himself not to glance at his correspondence, which came as he was dawdling over an early breakfast, his eye caught a foreign-looking letter lying on the top. It was no hand he knew—but something told him it contained a message—from his Queen.

He dominated himself; he would not even look at the postmark until he was away up in his own room. No eye but Pike's must see his joy—or sorrow and disappointment. And so the letter burnt in his pocket until his sanctum was reached, and then with agonised impatience he opened the envelope.

Within was another of the familiar paper he knew, and ah! thank God, addressed in pencil in his lady's own hand. Inside it contained an enclosure, but the sheet was blank. With wildly beating heart and trembling fingers Paul undid the smaller packet's folded ends. And there the morning sunbeams fell on a tiny curl of hair, of that peculiar nondescript shade of infant fairness which later would turn to gold. It was less than an inch long, and of the fineness of down, while in tender care it had been tied with a thread of blue silk.

Written on the paper underneath were the words:

"Beloved, he is so strong and fair, thy son, born the 19th of February."

For a moment Paul closed his eyes, and as once before a choir of seraphims were singing in his ears.

Then he looked at this minute lock again, and touched it with his forefinger. The strangest emotion he had ever known quivered through his being—the concentrated sensation of what he used to feel when his lady had spoken of their hope—a weird, tremulous, physical thrill. The dear small curl of hair! The actual, tangible proof of his own living son. He lifted it with the greatest reverence to his lips, and a mist of joy swam in his blue eyes. Ah! it was all too wonderful—too divine the thought! The essence of their great love—this child of his and hers. His and hers! Yes, their hope had not deceived them. It was true! It was true!

Then his mind rose in passionate worship of his lady. His goddess and Queen—the mainspring of his watch of life—the supreme and absolute mistress of his heart and soul. Never had he more madly desired and loved her than this day. He kissed and kissed her words in deep devotion.

But how and where was she?—was she well?—was she ill? Had she been suffering? Oh! that he could fly to her. More than ever the terrible gall of their separation came to him. It was his right, by every law of nature, to now be by her side.

But she was well—she must be well, or she would have said, and surely he soon would see her.

It was like a voice from heaven, her little written words, bridging the impossible—drawing him back to the knowledge and certainty that she was there, for him to love, and one day to go to. Fate could never be so unjust as to part him from—the mother of his child.

And then a state of mad ecstasy came over Paul with that vision; he could not stay in the house; he must go out under God's sky, and let his soul-thoughts fly into space. Dazzling pictures came to him; surely the spring was in his heart breaking through the frozen ground like a single golden crocus he saw at his feet—surely, surely the sun of life would shine again, and living he should see her.

He strode away, Pike gambolling beside him, and racing ahead and back again, seeming to understand and participate in his master's inward joy.

Paul hardly noticed where he went, his thoughts exalting him so that he did not even heed to choose his favourite haunt, the wood against the sky-line. It was as if great blocks of icy fear and anguish were melting in the warmth. Hope and glory shone on his path, almost blinding him.

He left the park far behind, and struck away across the moor. As he passed some gipsy vans a swarthy young woman looked out, an infant in her arms, and gave him a smiling greeting. But Paul stopped and said good-day, tossing her a sovereign with laughing, cheery words—for her little child—and so passed on, his glad face radiant as the morn.

But the woman called after him in gratitude:

"Blessings on your honour. Your own will grace a throne."

And the strange coincidence of her prophecy set fresh thrills of delight bounding in Paul's veins.

He walked and walked, stopping to lunch at an inn miles away. He could not bear even to see his parents—or the familiar scenes at home; and as once before he had felt in his grief—he and his joy must be alone to-day.

When he turned to come back in the late afternoon, the torrent of his wild happiness had crystallised itself into coherent thought and question. Surely she would send him some more words and make some plan to see him. But at least he was in touch with her again and knew she was his own—his own. The silence had broken, and human ingenuity would find some way of meeting.

The postmark was Vienna—though that meant nothing at all; she could have sent Dmitry there to post the letter. But at best, even if it were Russia, a few days' journey only separated him from his darling and—his son! Then the realisation of that proud fact of parenthood came over him again. He said the words aloud, "My son!"

And with a cry of wild exaltation he vaulted a gate like a schoolboy and ran along the path, Pike bounding in the air in frantic sympathy. Thus Paul returned to his home again, hope singing in his heart.

* * * * *

But even his father did not guess why that night at dinner he raised his champagne glass and drank a silent toast—his eyes gazing into distance as if he there saw heaven.



CHAPTER XXVI

Of course as the days went by the sparkle of Paul's joy subsided. An infinite unrest took its place—a continual mad desire for further news. Supposing she were ill, his darling one? Many times a day he read her words; the pencil writing was certainly feeble and shaky—supposing—But he refused to face any terrible picture. The letter had come on the 2d of March; his son had been eleven days old then—two days and a half to Vienna—that brought it to eight when the letter was posted—and from whence had it come there? If he allowed two days more, say—she must have written it only five or six days after the baby's birth.

Paul knew very little about such things, though he understood vaguely that a woman might possibly be very ill even after then. But surely, if so, Anna or Dmitry would have told him on their own initiative. This thought comforted him a little, but still anxiety—like a sleuth-hound—pursued his every moment. He would not leave home—London saw him not even for a day. Some word might come in his absence, some message or summons to go to her, and he would not chance being out of its reach. More than ever all their three weeks of happiness was lived over again—every word she had said had sunk for ever in his memory. And away in his solitary walks, or his rides home from hunting in the dusk of the afternoon, he let them echo in his heart.

But the desire to be near her was growing an obsession.

Some days when a wild gallop had made his blood run, triumphant thoughts of his son would come to him. How he should love to teach him to sit a horse in days to come, to ride to hounds, and shoot, and be an English gentleman. Oh! why was she a Queen, his loved one, and far away—why not here, and his wife, whom he could cover with devotion and honour? Surely that would be enough for them both—a life of trust and love and sweetness; but even if it were not—there was the world to choose from, if only they were together.

The two—Paul and his father—were a silent pair for the most part, as they jogged along the lanes on their way back from hunting.

One afternoon, when this sense of parenthood was strong upon Paul, he went in to tea in his mother's sitting-room. And as he leant upon the mantelpiece, his tall, splendid figure in its scarlet coat outlined against the bright blaze, his eye took in—perhaps for the first time—the immense number of portraits of himself which decorated this apartment—himself in every stage, from infantile days upward, through the toy rocking-horse period to the real dog companion—in Eton collars and Fourth of June hats—in cricketing flannels and Oxford Bullingdon groups—and then not so many, until one taken last year. How young it looked and smiling! There was one particular miniature of him in the holy of holiest positions in the centre of the writing-table—a real work of art, well painted on ivory. It was mounted in a frame of fine pearls, and engraved with the name and date at the back:

"Paul Verdayne—aged five years and three months."

It was a full-length picture of him standing next a great chair, in a blue velvet suit and a lace turn-over collar, while curls of brightest gold fell rippling to his neck—rather short bunchy curls which evidently would not be repressed.

"Was I ever like that, mother?" he said.

And the Lady Henrietta, only too enchanted to expand upon this enthralling subject, launched forth on a full description.

Like it! Of course! Only much more beautiful. No child had ever had such golden curls, or such eyes or eye-lashes! No child had ever, in fact, been able to compare with him in any way, or ever would! The Lady Henrietta's delicate shell-tinted cheeks flushed rose with joy at the recollection.

"Darling mother," said Paul, as he kissed her, "how you loved me. And how cold I have often been. Forgive me—"

Then he was silent while she fondled him in peace, his thoughts turning as ever to his lady. She, too, probably, would be foolish, and tender, and sweet over her son—and how his mother would love her grandchild. Oh! how cruel, how cruel was fate!

Then he asked: "Mother, does it take women a long time to get well when they have children? Ladies, I mean, who are finely nurtured? They generally get well, though, don't they—and it is quite simple—"

And the Lady Henrietta blushed as she answered:

"Oh! yes, quite simple—unless some complications occur. Of course there is always a faint danger, but then it is so well worth it. What a strange thing to ask, though, dear boy! Were you thinking of Cousin Agatha?"

"Cousin Agatha!" said Paul vaguely, and then recollected himself. "Oh, yes, of course—how is she?"

But when he went off to his room to change, his mother's words stayed with him—"unless some complications occur"—and the thought opened a fresh field of anxious wonderment.

At last it all seemed unbearable. A wild idea of rushing off to Vienna came to him—to rush there on the clue of a postmark—but common sense put this aside. It might be the means of just missing some message. No, he must bear things and wait. This silence, perhaps, meant good news—and if by the end of April nothing came, then he should have to break his promise and investigate.

About this time Captain Grigsby again came to stay with them. And the next day, as he and his host smoked their pipes while they walked up and down the sunny terrace, he took occasion to give forth this information:

"I say, Charles—I have located her—have you?"

"No! By Jove!" said Paul's father. "Hubert is away, you know, and I have just let the thing slide—"

"About the end of February did you notice the boy looking at all worried?"

Sir Charles thought a moment.

"Yes—I recollect—d—d worried and restless—and he is again now."

"Ah! I thought so!" said Mark Grigsby, as though he could say a good deal more.

"Well, then—out with it, Grig," Sir Charles said impatiently.

And Captain Grigsby proceeded in his own style to weave together a chain of coincidences which had struck him, until this final certainty. They were a clear set of arguments, and Paul's father was convinced, too.

"You see, Tompson told you in the beginning she was Russian," Captain Grigsby said after talking for some time, "and the rest was easy to find out. We're not here to judge the morals of the affair, Charles; you and I can only be thundering glad your grandson will sit on that throne all right."

He had read in one paper—he proceeded to say—that a most difficult political situation had been avoided by the birth of this child, as there was no possible heir at all, and immense complications would ensue upon the death of the present ruler—the scurrilous rag even gave a resume of this ruler's dissolute life, and a broad hint that the child could in no case be his; but, as they pithily remarked, this added to the little prince's welcome in Ministerial circles, where the lady was greatly beloved and revered, and the King had only been put upon his tottering throne, and kept there, by the fact of being her husband. The paper added, the King had taken the chief part in the rejoicings over the heir, so there was nothing to be said. There were hints also of his mad fits of debauchery and drunkenness, and a suppressed tale of how in one of them he had strangled a keeper, and had often threatened the Queen's life. Her brother, however, was with her now, and would see Russian supremacy was not upset.

"Husband seems a likely character to hobnob with, don't he, Charles? No wonder she turned her eye on Paul, eh?" Mark Grigsby ended with.

But Sir Charles answered not, his thoughts were full of his son.

All the forces of nature and emotion seemed to be drawing him away from peaceful England towards a hornets' nest, and he—his father—would be powerless to prevent it.



CHAPTER XXVII

April's days were lengthening out in showers and sunshine and cold east wind. Easter and a huge party had come and gone at Verdayne Place, and the Lady Henrietta had had her hopes once more blighted by noticing Paul's indomitable indifference to all the pretty girls.

He was going to stand for Parliament in the autumn, when their very old member should retire, and he made that an excuse for his isolation; he was working too hard for social functions, he said. But in reality life was growing more than he could bear.

Captain Grigsby had sold the old Blue Heather and bought a new steam yacht of seven hundred tons—large enough to take him round the world, he said—and he had had her put in commission for the Mediterranean, and she was waiting for him now at Marseilles. Would Paul join him for a trip? he asked, and Paul hesitated for a moment.

If no news came by Friday—this was a Monday—then he should go to London and deliberately find out his lady's name and kingdom. In that case to cruise in those waters might suit his book passing well.

So he asked for a few days' grace, and Captain Grigsby gave a friendly growl in reply, and thus it was settled. By Saturday he was to give his answer.

Tuesday passed, and Wednesday, and on Thursday a telegram came for Paul which drove him mad with joy. It was short and to the point: "Meet Dmitry in Paris," Then followed an address. By rushing things he could just catch the night boat.

He went to his father's room, where Sir Charles was discussing affairs with his land steward. The man retired.

"Father," said Paul, "I am going immediately to Paris. I have not even time to wait and see my mother—she is out driving, I hear. Will you understand, father, and make it all right with her?"

And Sir Charles said, as he wrung his son's hand:

"Take care of yourself, Paul—I understand, my boy—and remember, Grig and I are with you to the bone. Wire if you want us—and let me have your news."

So they had parted without fuss, deep feeling in their hearts.

Paul had telegraphed to the address given, for Dmitry, that he would be in Paris, and at what hotel, by the following morning. He chose a large caravanserai as being more suitable to unremarked comings and goings, should Dmitry's visit be anything of a secret one. And with intense impatience he awaited the faithful servant's visit.

He was eating his early breakfast in his sitting-room when the old man appeared. In all the journey Paul had not allowed himself any speculation—he would see and know soon, that was enough. But he felt inclined to grind this silver-haired retainer's hand with joy as he made his respectful obeisance.

"The Excellency was well?"

"Yes." And now for his news.

Madame had bid him come and see the Excellency here in Paris, as not being so inaccessible as England—and first, Yes, Madame was well—There was something in his voice as he said this which made Paul exclaim and question him closely, but he would only repeat that—Yes, his lady was well—a little delicate still, but well—and the never-sufficiently-to-be-beloved son was well, too, his lady had told him to assure the Excellency—and was the portrait of his most illustrious father. And the old man lowered his eyes, while Paul looked out of the window, and thrilled all over. Circumstances made things very difficult for Madame to leave the southern country where she was at present, but she had a very strong desire to see the Excellency again—if such meeting could be managed.

He paused, and Paul exclaimed that of course it could be managed, and he could start that night.

But Dmitry shook his head. That would be impossible, he said. Much planning would be needed first. A yacht must be taken, and not until the end of May would it be safe for the Excellency to journey south. At that time Madame would be in a chateau on the seacoast, and if the Excellency in his cruise could be within sight, he might possibly land at a suitable moment and see her for a few hours.

Paul thought of Captain Grigsby.

"I will come in a yacht, whenever I may," he said to Dmitry.

So they began to settle details. Paul imagined from Dmitry continuing to call his Queen plain "Madame" that she still wished to preserve her incognito, so, madly as he desired to know, he would wait until he saw her face to face, and then ask to be released from his promise. The time had come when he could bear the mystery no longer, but he would not question Dmitry. All his force was turned to extracting every detail of his darling's health and well-being from the old servant, and in his guarded, respectful manner he answered all he could.

His lady had indeed been very ill, Paul gathered—at death's door. Ah! this was terrible to hear—but lately she was mending rapidly, only she had been too ill to plan or make any arrangements to see him. How all this made his heart ache! Something had told him his passionate anxiety had not been without cause. Dmitry continued: Madame's life was not a happy one, the Excellency must know, and the difficulties surrounding her had become formidable once or twice. However, the brother of Madame was with her now, and had been made guardian of her son—so things were peaceful and the cause of all her trouble would not dare to menace further.

For once Dmitry had let himself go, as he spoke, and a passionate hate appeared in his quiet eyes. The "Trouble" was of so impossible a viciousness that only the nobility and goodness of Madame had prevented his assassination numbers of times. He was hated, he said, hated and loathed; his life—spent in continual drunkenness, and worse, unspeakable wickedness—was not worth a day's purchase, but for her. The son of Madame would be loved forever, for her sake, so the Excellency need not fear for that, and Madame's brother was there, and would see all was well.

Then Paul asked Dmitry if his lady had been aware that he had been ill in Venice. And he heard that, Yes, indeed, she had kept herself informed of all his movements, and had even sent Vasili back on learning of his danger, and was on the point of throwing all prudence to the winds and returning herself. Oh! Madame had greatly suffered in the past year—the old man said, but she was more beautiful than ever, and of the gentleness of an angel, taking continuous pleasure in her little son—indeed, Anna had said this was her only joy, to caress the illustrious infant and call him Paul—such name he had been christened—after a great-uncle. And again Dmitry lowered his eyes, and again Paul looked out of the window and thrilled.

Paul! She had called him Paul, their son. It touched him to the heart. Oh! the mad longing to see her! Must he wait a whole month? Yes—Dmitry said there was no use his coming before the 28th of May, for reasons which he could not explain connected with the to-be-hated Troublesome one.

Every detail was then arranged, and Dmitry was to send Paul maps, and a chart, and the exact description and name of the place where the yacht was to lie. The whole thing would take some time, even if they were to depart to-morrow.

"The yacht is at Marseilles now," Paul said, "and we shall start on the cruise next week. Let me have every last instruction poste restante, at Constantinople—and for God's sake send me news to Naples on the way."

Dmitry promised everything, and then as he made his obeisance to go, he slipped a letter into Paul's hand. Madame had bidden him give the Excellency this when they had talked and all was settled. He would leave again that night, and his present address would find him till six o'clock if the Excellency had aught to send in return.

And then he backed out with deep bows, and Paul stood there, clasping his letter, a sudden spring of wild joy in his heart.

And what a letter it was! The very soul of his loved one expressed in her own quaint words.

First she told him that now she expected he knew who she was, and as they were to meet again—which in the beginning she feared might never be—all reason for her incognito was over. Then she told him—to make sure he knew—her name and kingdom. "But, sweetheart," she added, "remember this—my proudest titles ever are to be thy Loved one, and the Mother of thy son." Here Paul kissed the words, madly thrilling with pride and worship. She spoke of her still undying love, and of her anguishing sorrow all the winter at their separation, and at length the joy of their little one's arrival.