One Day Part 20

CHAPTER XVI

How the remainder of the evening pa.s.sed, Paul Zalenska never knew. As he looked back upon it, during the months that followed, it seemed like some hideous dream from which he was struggling to awake. He talked, he smiled, he even laughed, but scarcely of his own volition; it was as though another personality acted through him.

He was a temperate boy, but that night he drank more champagne than was good for him. Paul Verdayne was grieved. Not that he censured the lad.

He knew only too well the anguish the Boy was suffering, and he could not find it in his heart to blame him for the dissipation. And yet Verdayne also knew how unavailing were all such attempts to drown the sorrow that had so shocked the Boy's sensitive spirit.

As he gazed regretfully at the Boy across the dinner table, the butler placed a cablegram before him. Receiving a nod of permission from his hostess, he hastily tore open the envelope and paled at its contents.

The message was signed by the Verdaynes' solicitor, and read:

_Sir Charles very ill. Come immediately._

Before they left the house, Paul sought Opal for a few last words. There were no obstacles placed in his way now by anxious parental authority.

He smiled cynically as he noticed how clear the way was made for him, now that Opal was "safeguarded" by her betrothal.

She drew him to one side, whispering, "Before you judge me too harshly, Paul, please listen to what I have to say. I feel I have the right to make this explanation, and you have the right to hear it. Under the French law, I am legally bound to the Count de Roannes. Fearing that I might not remain true to a mere verbal pledge--you knew we were engaged, Paul, for I told you that, last summer--the Count asked that the betrothal papers be executed before his unavoidable return to Paris.

Knowing no real reason for delay, since it had to come some time, I consented; but I stipulated that I was to have six months of freedom before becoming his wife. Arrangements have been made for us all to go abroad next spring, and we shall be married in Paris. Paul, I did not tell you this, this afternoon--I could not! I wanted to see you--the real you--just once more, before you heard the bitter news, for I knew that after you had heard, you would never look or speak the same to me again. Oh, Paul, pity me! Pity me when I tell you that I asked for those six months simply that I might dedicate them to you, and to the burial, in my memory, of our little dream of love! It was only my little fancy, Paul! I wanted to play at being constant that long to our dream. I wanted to wear my six-months' mourning for our still-born love. I thought it was only a little game of 'pretend' to you, Paul--why should it be anything else? But it was very real to me."

Her voice broke, and the Boy took her hand in his, tenderly, for his resentment had long since died away.

"Opal," he faltered, "I no longer know nor care who or what I am. This experience has taken me out of myself, and set my feet in strange paths.

I had a life to live, Opal, but I have forgotten it in yours. I had theories, ideals, hopes, aspirations--but I don't know where they are now, Opal. They are gone--gone with your smile--"

Opal's eyes grew soft with caresses.

"They will come back, Paul--they must come back! They were born in you--of Truth itself, not of a mere woman. You will forget me, Boy, and your life will not be the pitiful waste you think. It must not be!"

"I used to think that, Opal. It never seemed to me that life could ever be an utter waste so long as a man had work to do and the strength and skill to do it. But now--I'm all at sea! I only know--how--I shall miss _you!_"

Opal grew thoughtful.

"And how will it be with me?" she said sadly. "I have never learned to wear a mask. I can't pose. I can't wear 'false smiles that cover an aching heart.' Perhaps the world may teach me now--but I'm not a hypocrite--yet!"

"I believe you, Opal! I love you because you are you!"

"And I love you, Paul, because you are you!"

And even then he did not clasp her in his arms, nor attempt it. She was another's now, and his hands were tied. He must try to control his one great weakness--the longing for her.

And in the few moments left to them, they talked and cheered each other, as intimate friends on the eve of a long separation. They both knew now that they loved--but they also knew that they must part--and forever!

"I love you, Paul," said Opal, "even as you love me. I do not hesitate to confess it again, because--well, I am not yet his wife. And I want to give you this one small comfort to help to make you strong to fight and conquer, and--endure!"

"But, Opal, you are the one woman in the world G.o.d meant for me! How can I face the world without you?"

"Better that you should, Paul, and keep on fancying yourself loving me always, than that you should have me for a wife, and then weary of me, as men do weary of their wives!"

"Opal! Never!"

"Oh, but you might, Boy. Most men do. It's their nature, I suppose."

"But it is not _my_ nature, Opal, to grow tired of what I love. I am not capricious. Why should you think so?"

"But it's human nature, Paul; there is no denying that. To think, Paul, that we could grow to clasp hands like this--that we could kiss--actually kiss, Paul, _calmly_, as women kiss each other--that we could ever rest in each other's arms and grow weary!"

But Paul would not listen. He always would have loved her, always! He loved her, anyway, and always would, were she a thousand times the Countess de Roannes, but it was too late! too late!

"Always remember, Paul, wherever you are and whatever you do," went on Opal, "that I love you. I know it now, and I know how much! Let the memory of it be an inspiration to you when your spirits flag, and a consolation when skies are gray, and--Paul--oh, I love you--love you--that's all! Kiss me--just once--our last goodbye! There can be no harm in that, when it's for the last time!"

And Paul, with a heart-breaking sob, clasped her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers as one kisses the face of his beloved dead. He wondered vaguely why he felt no pa.s.sion--wondered at the utter languor of the senses that did not wake even as he pressed his lips to hers. It was not a woman's body in his arms--but as the s.e.xless form of one long dead and lost to him forever. It was not pa.s.sion now--it was love, stripped of all sensuality, purged of all desire save the longing to endure.

It was the hour of love's supremest triumph--renunciation!

CHAPTER XVII

Back in England again--England in the fall of the year--England in the autumn of life, for Sir Charles Verdayne was nearing his end. The Boy spent a few weeks at Verdayne Place, and then left to pay his first visit to his fiancee. Paul Verdayne was prevented by his father's ill health from accompanying him to Austria, as had been the original plan.

Opal had asked of the Boy during that last strange hour they had spent together that he should make this visit, and bow obediently to the call of destiny--as she had done. She did not know who he really was, nor what station in life his fiancee graced, but she did know that it was his duty bravely and well to play his part in the drama of life, whatever the role. She would not have him shirk. It was a horrible thing, she had said with a shudder--none knew it better than she--but she would be glad all her life to think that he had been no coward, and had not cringed beneath the bitterest blow of fate, but had been strong because she loved him and believed in him.

And so, since Paul Verdayne could not be absent from his father's side, with many a reluctant thought the Boy set forth for Austria alone.

During his absence, Isabella--she who had been Isabella Waring--returned from Blackheath a widow with two grown daughters--two more modern editions of the original Isabella. The widow herself was graver and more matronly, yet there was much of the old Isabella left, and Verdayne was glad to see her. Lady Henrietta gave her a cordial invitation to visit Verdayne Place, which she readily accepted, pa.s.sing many pleasant hours with the friend of her youth and helping to while away the long days that Verdayne found so tiresome when the Boy was away from him.

Isabella was still "a good sort," and made life much less unbearable than it might have been, but Verdayne often smiled to think of the "puppy-love" he had once felt for her. It was amusing, now, and they both laughed over it--though Isabella would not have been a woman had she not wondered at times why her "old pal" had never married. There had been chances, lots of them, for the girls had always liked the blue-eyed, manly boy he had been, and petted and flattered and courted him all through his youth. Why hadn't he chosen one of them? Had he really cared so much for her--Isabella? And she often found herself looking with much pitying tenderness upon the lonely man, whose heart seemed so empty of the family ties it should have fostered--and wondering.

Lady Henrietta, too, was set to thinking as the days went by, and turning, one night, to her son, "Paul," she said, "I begin to think that perhaps I was wrong in separating you from the girl you loved, and so spoiling your life. Isabella would have made you a fairly good wife, I believe, as wives go, and you must forgive your mother, who meant it for the best. She did not see the way clearly, then, and so denied you the one great desire of your heart"

She looked at him closely, but his heart was no longer worn upon his sleeve, and finding his face non-committal, she went on slowly, feeling her way carefully as she advanced.

"Perhaps it is not too late now, my son. Don't let my prejudices stand in your way again, for you are still young enough to be happy, and I shall be truly glad to welcome any wife--any!"

Verdayne did not reply. His eyes were studying the pattern of the rug beneath his feet. His mother's face flushed with embarra.s.sment at the delicacy of the subject, but she stumbled on bravely.

"Paul," she said, "Isabella is young yet, and you are not so very old.

It may not, even now, be too late to hold a little grandchild on my knee before I die. I have been so fond of Paul--he is so very like you when you were a boy--and have wished--oh, you don't know how a mother feels, Paul--I have often wished that he were your son, or that I might have had a grandson just like him. Do you know, Paul, I have often fancied that your son, had you had one, would have been very like this dear Boy."

Verdayne choked back a sob. If his mother could only understand as some women would have understood! If he could have told her the truth! But, no, he never could. Even now it would have been a terrible shock to her, and she could never have forgiven, never held up her head again, if she had known.

As for marrying Isabella--could he? After all, was it right to let the old name die out for want of an heir? Was it just to his father? And Isabella would not expect to be made love to. There was never that sort of nonsense about her, and she would make all due allowance for his age and seriousness.