High Noon Part 13

"_Pouf_!" she exclaimed, with a shrug. "This is but the whim of a girl who does not know her own mind. Come--I will be a consistent fatalist.

The affair is out of my hands. After all, it is just what I have long wished--though I never dreamed for such good fortune as that it would be Sir Paul Verdayne. She'll simply have to forgive me"--and the Countess smilingly hummed an old Dalmatian love-song as she left the room.

Meanwhile, Paul paced the floor of his sitting-room impatiently while Baxter packed his luggage. A strange exultation moved him, and he dreamt of joy and love. To him, his dreams were more than mere bubbles--before his eyes lay all the glory of the earth, and a whole Heaven besides. Ah! if the good G.o.d-mother could only have endowed him with seven-leagued boots! He could scarcely wait for the long journey to be finished. And it had not yet begun.

"Hurry, Baxter!" he called, as he looked again at his watch. And Baxter, thinking of the pretty _femme de chambre_, once more was tempted to give notice.

CHAPTER XVIII

On and on, during long days and restless nights, our Don Quixote journeyed--for was not Paul like that n.o.ble knight, endeavouring to recall a long dead past unto life? After all, there was only one Dulcinea del Tobosa--and she was still, and ever would be, the most beautiful woman in the world.

One morning, at length, Paul awakened from a troublous sleep. The train had stopped, and looking out of the window in the early mist he saw some strange figures standing by the side of the track--bearded men, mostly, with brilliant scarlet shirts, and trousers tucked into huge clumsy boots--some of them half-covered with long white ap.r.o.ns.

He recognized these gentry as customs officials and porters. At last he had reached the Russian frontier!

He dressed quickly, eager, for the first time in his life, to have his baggage examined and his pa.s.sports inspected. Usually Paul regarded such performances as a violation of the Heaven-sent rights of an Englishman to wander unmolested over the face of the earth. But now--once the ceremony was over--it meant that he was one step nearer the goal.

Having satisfied the zealous subjects of the Tsar that he was neither a Nihilist nor a Jew, and that his luggage contained no high explosives, nor other contraband goods, Paul's history was carefully written down in a leather covered book, and he was granted the right as an English gentleman to seek amus.e.m.e.nt where he would throughout the domains of the Little Father at St. Petersburg.

The other pa.s.sengers having in their turn been duly examined, the train at last moved on, to drag itself monotonously for hour after hour through countless cornfields and stretches of forest. At last--and Paul had begun to think the time would never come--he stepped down and stretched his tired muscles in the railway station at Warsaw. The prospect of a good hotel, with a tub, a well-served dinner and a real bed once more, Paul considered for a moment. But no! he would push on at once. He could rest at his journey's end--this was no time to look after the comfort of his body; the cry of his soul must first be satisfied.

And after a brief delay he found himself again _en route_.

On his travels in out-of-the-way corners of the globe, Paul had long ago accustomed himself to discomfort--even hardship. But he shuddered as he thought of his dainty lady being subjected to the vicissitudes of a long trip on those primitive Russian railways. For two days and a night, in a heaving, swaying train, in a carriage full of reeking people smoking rancid tobacco, he was forced to curb his eagerness. As the time of his arrival drew nearer Paul found it all the more difficult to endure the delay.

It seemed as if the end would never come. The country was almost all forest now and more bleak and mournful than any Paul had ever seen.

The innumerable willow trees, with their branches drooping to earth as if they, of all living things, denied the joys of spring, exerted on him a strangely depressing influence.

But finally, to Paul's relief, the country became more open, and at last, as the train rolled along the edge of a clear upland, Paul saw the sheen of the glorious Dnieper, a silver thread beyond which rose a low range of brown hills covered with woods. And soon he made out the spires and domes of Kieff.

A little while longer--and then with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction he felt the firm earth under foot once more. Kieff at last! Paul could scarcely believe it.

Into one of the open vans that meet the weary traveller Paul climbed, and rode across the hills to the fashionable quarter of the town. The Grand Hotel, he found, was very comfortable, and he retired that night in a calmer frame of mind than he had known since he left Paris.

For he felt that he was on the threshold.

From Kieff Paul proceeded the next morning, accompanied by his faithful Baxter, who held in true British contempt the "houtlandish Russians," and grumbled far more than he was wont as he stowed into the _droskie_ such necessities as a week's absence required. But Paul's eagerness proved infectious, and before the sun had arisen they were far on their way.

It seemed a bit unconventional to Paul's English mind to appear at a lady's house without an invitation--even warning of his coming. But there was nothing for it--it was the only course that offered. Those living in Russian country-houses, he knew, were used to entertaining such travellers as came their way unbidden. In spa.r.s.ely settled districts, where there were not even wretched inns for shelter, it was a custom that had come about quite naturally.

Paul had never been in that part of Russia before, and it was with more than pa.s.sing interest that he observed the scenes around him. At first he could not understand the pa.s.sion which he knew Mademoiselle Vseslavitch felt for her own country, for near Kieff the land was sterile--the scenery somewhat uneventful. But as the leagues put themselves between him and the town the aspect of the landscape changed. It was early Summer or late Spring then, you remember, and after some hours Paul found himself driven through luxuriant vegetation. As his eye traversed the great billows of the gra.s.sy sea he saw that one might easily become lost in the verdure. And yet what glorious reward awaited the bold adventurer! Somewhere, beyond this emerald ocean, waited the lady he sought.

At mid-day they stopped before a peasant's hut, in the doorway of which a _moujik_ stood, wrapped in sheepskin and with long and s.h.a.ggy hair and beard.

"Good-day, brother; how goes it?" asked Paul, for he knew a little of the language.

"Good-day, little father; thank G.o.d, it goes well with me," the man answered. "What is your pleasure? How can I serve you?" and his face unbent with a welcoming smile.

"A little food, brother, if you will," Paul replied, "for we have come many leagues."

The _moujik_ made sign for Paul and his men to enter, and soon at a rude table they were eating black bread and drinking _kva.s.s_.

Fresh from the _cafes_ of Paris, Paul delighted in this primitive simplicity. The transition from the boulevards to the _steppe_ was most refreshing. When after a short rest they were ready to start on again, Paul would have the man accept money for their entertainment.

But the peasant waved the coin away.

"To take payment for the bread and salt which a pa.s.sing stranger consumes in thy dwelling is a great sin," he said. "I am happy to have served thee."

CHAPTER XIX

Once more on the road, the driver urged on his horses, already tired.

The country was fast becoming rougher, and more wooded, and now and then Paul caught sight of hills in the distance. As the afternoon wore on he saw that they would be fortunate if night-fall did not overtake them before they arrived at their destination. The road was full of deep ruts--at some stages almost impa.s.sable--and when, just as darkness was close upon them, they came upon a large and comfortable appearing house--evidently the home of some great landed proprietor--Paul told the driver to turn in.

The house showed little sign of any life about it until two great wolf-hounds came bounding out and barked loudly at the travellers.

Then a servant appeared at the door, and bidding the dogs begone, asked Paul to alight and enter, directing Baxter and the driver to the court-yard in the rear.

The man-servant led Paul through a dark hall into a great drawing-room. As he entered the room a woman laid down a book and rose. She must in her time have been uncommonly beautiful, Paul thought. She was beautiful even now, though her eyes were very tired and her face when in repose was hard and set. Her hair would have at once aroused suspicion that it was dyed, for it was l.u.s.trous and brilliant as burnished copper. But the suspicion would have been without justification, in the same way as would have been the notion that the very p.r.o.nounced colour on the woman's cheeks was artificial too.

She seemed to hesitate a little, and just as Paul was about to crave pardon for his unceremonious intrusion (the servant had merely opened the door for him and he had entered unannounced) a man, dressed, like Paul, in ordinary tweeds, stepped quickly out of the darkness into the rays of the candelabra.

For a moment he gazed at Paul with curiosity without addressing him.

Paul saw a man with an olive face set with dark, almond-shaped eyes beneath a pair of oblique and finely-pencilled brows; his nose was aquiline and a.s.sertive, his mouth shrewd and mean and scarcely hidden by a carefully-trained and very faintly-waxed moustache. He was exceedingly tall and astonishingly spare in build.

"Ah, a traveller, I see," the Russian said at length in careful English. "You are most welcome, I a.s.sure you, sir. We are delighted to have your company. It is a pleasure which seldom comes to us in this lonely spot. My name," he added, stretching out his hand to Paul, "is Boris Ivanovitch, and this lady," turning to his companion, "is--my sister."

Paul bowed to the red-haired woman.

"Aldringham is my name," he said, as he grasped the gentleman's outstretched hand. He did not like the look in the heavy-lidded eyes of his host, and some quick instinct prevented him from giving his own name--so he fell back upon that of his mother's family.

And now a third occupant of the house entered--a tall young man of the most unpleasant appearance.

"My cousin Michael," said Ivanovitch in an even voice, "Michael, this is Mr. Aldringham, an English traveller."

The newcomer had very light blue eyes, closely set together, and a large, red, hawk-like nose. His hands too were large and red, with immense knuckles and brutal, short, stubbed nails. Paul took one of the huge red hands with a barely repressed shudder. It was cold and clammy and strong as a vise.

"If ever," thought the baronet to himself, "I have touched the hand of a murderer, I have touched one now."

The tall young man sat down presently and carefully watched Paul with his narrow, light blue eyes, which glinted and flashed all over Paul's face. Boris Ivanovitch looked at him sidelong. The red-haired woman alone gazed at him openly and frankly with eyes that were almost honestly blue.

There was a little pause while conversation hung fire. There was nothing for this curious collection of human beings to talk about except the traveller himself, and on this subject their tongues had to be silent as long as he remained.

Suddenly the door opened, and a portly man with a sallow, greasy face came quickly in. He stood still, with his hand on the panel of the door, and gave a short, quick gasp which caused Paul to look at him sharply. That form struck Paul as strangely familiar.