Three Weeks Part 9

"I do, Sir Charles," said Tompson, stolidly.

And he did, as events proved.

The rooms on the Burgenstock looked so simple, so unlike the sitting-room at Lucerne! Just fresh and clean and primitive. Paul wandered through them, and in the one allotted to himself he came upon Anna--Madame's maid, whom Dmitry had pointed out to him--putting sheets as fine as gossamer on his bed; with the softest down pillows. How dear of his lady to think thus of him!--her secretary.

The tiger--his tiger--had arrived in the sitting-room, and some simple cushions of silk; sweet-peas and spring flowers decorated the vases--there were no tuberoses, or anything hot-house, or forced.

The sun blazed in at the windows, the green trees all washed and fresh from the rain gladdened his eye, and down below, a sapphire lake reflected the snow-capped mountains. What a setting for a love-dream. No wonder Paul trod on air!

The only possible crumpled rose-leaves were some sentences in the lady's reply to his impa.s.sioned letter of the morning:

"Yes, I will come, Paul--but only on one condition, that you never ask me questions as to who I am, or where I am going. You must promise me to take life as a summer holiday--an episode--and if fate gives us this great joy, you must not try to fetter me, now or at any future time, or control my movements. You must give me your word of honour for this--you will never seek to discover who or what was your loved one--you must never try to follow me. Yes, I will come for now--when I have your a.s.surance--but I will go when I will go--in silence."

And Paul had given his word. He felt he could not look ahead. He must just live in this gorgeous joy, and trust to chance. So he awaited her, thrilling in all his being.

About tea time she drove up in a carriage--she and Dmitry having come the long way round.

And was it not right that her secretary should meet and a.s.sist her out, and conduct her to her apartments?

How beautiful she looked, all in palest grey, and somehow the things had a younger shape. Her skirt was short, and he could see her small and slender feet, while a straw hat and veil adorned her black hair. Everything was simple, and as it should be for a mountain top and unsophisticated surroundings.

Tea was laid out on the balcony, fragrant Russian tea, and when Dmitry had lit the silver kettle lamp he retired and left them alone in peace.

"Darling!" said Paul, as he folded her in his arms--"darling!--darling!"

And when she could speak the lady cooed back to him:

"So sweet a word is that, my Paul. Sweeter in English than in any other language. And you are glad I have come, and we shall live a little and be quite happy here in our pretty nest, all fresh and not a bit too grand--is it not so? Oh! what joys there are in life; and oh! how foolish just to miss them."

"Indeed, _yes_," said Paul.

Then they played with the tea, and she showed him how he was to drink it with lemon. She was sweet as a girl, and said no vague, startling things; it was as if she were a young bride, and Paul were complete master and lord! Wild happiness rushed through him. How had he ever endured the time before he had met her?

When they had finished they went out. She must walk, she said, and Paul, being English, must want exercise! Oh! she knew the English and their exercise! And of course she must think of everything that would be for the pleasure of her lover Paul.

And he? You old worn people of the world, who perhaps are reading, think what all this was to Paul--his young strong life vibrating to pa.s.sionate joys, his imagination kindled, his very being uplifted and thrilled with happiness! His charming soul expanded, he found himself saying gracious tender phrases to her. Every moment he was growing more pa.s.sionately in love, and in each new mood she seemed the more divine. Not one trace of her waywardness of the day before remained. Her eyes, as they glanced at him from under her hat, were bashful and sweet, no look of the devil to provoke a saint. She talked gently.

He must take her to the place where she had peeped at him through the trees. And--

"Oh! Paul!" she said. "If you had known that day, how you tempted me, looking up at me, your whole soul in your eyes! I had to run, run, run!"

"And now I have caught you, darling mine," said Paul. "But you were wrong.

I had no soul--it is you who are giving me one now."

They sat on the bench where he had sat. She was getting joy out of the colour of the moss, the tints of the beeches, every little shade and shape of nature, and letting Paul see with her eyes.

And all the while she was nestling near him like a tender ring-dove to her mate. Paul's heart swelled with exultation. He felt good, as if he could be kind to every one, as if his temper were a thing to be ashamed of, and all his faults, as if for ever he must be her own true knight and defender, and show her he was worthy of this great gift and joy. And ah!

how could he put into words his tender worshipping love?

So the afternoon faded into evening, and the young crescent moon began to show in the sky--a slender moon of silver, only born the night before.

"See, this is our moon," said the lady, "and as she waxes, so will our love wax--but now she is young and fresh and fair, like it. Come, my Paul.

Let us go to our house; soon we shall dine, and I want to be beautiful for you."

So they went in to their little hotel.

She was all in white when Paul found her in their inner salon, where they were to dine alone, waited on only by Dmitry. Her splendid hair was bound with a fillet of gold, and fell in two long strands, twisted with gold, nearly to her knees. Her garment was soft and clinging, and unlike any garment he had ever seen. They sat on a sofa together, the table in front of them, and they ate slowly and whispered much--and before Paul could taste his wine, she kissed his gla.s.s and sipped from it and made him do the same with hers. The food was of the simplest, and the only things exotic were the great red strawberries at the end.

Dmitry had left them, placing the coffee on the table as he went, and a bottle of the rare golden wine.

Then this strange lady grew more tender still. She must lie in Paul's arms, and he must feed her with strawberries. And the thought came to him that her mouth looked as red as they.

To say he was intoxicated with pleasure and love is to put it as it was.

It seemed as if he had arrived at a zenith, and yet he knew there would be more to come. At last she raised herself and poured out the yellow wine--into one gla.s.s.

"My Paul," she said, "this is our wedding might, and this is our wedding wine. Taste from this our gla.s.s and say if it is good."

And to the day of his death, if ever Paul should taste that wine again, a mad current of pa.s.sionate remembrance will come to him--and still more pa.s.sionate regret.

Oh! the divine joy of that night! They sat upon the balcony presently, and Elaine in her worshipping thoughts of Lancelot--Marguerite wooed by Faust--the youngest girl bride--could not have been more sweet or tender or submissive than this wayward Tiger Queen.

"Paul," she said, "out of the whole world tonight there are only you and I who matter, sweetheart. Is it not so? And is not that your English word for lover and loved--'sweetheart'?"

And Paul, who had never even heard it used except in a kind of joke, now knew it was what he had always admired. Yes, indeed, it was "sweetheart"--and she was his!

"Remember, Paul," she whispered when, pa.s.sion maddening him, he clasped her violently in his arms--"remember--whatever happens--whatever comes--for now, to-night, there is no other reason in all of this but just--I love you--I love you, Paul!"

"My Queen, my Queen!" said Paul, his voice hoa.r.s.e in his throat.

And the wind played in softest zephyrs, and the stars blazed in the sky, mirroring themselves in the blue lake below.

Such was their wedding night.

Oh! glorious youth! and still more glorious love!

CHAPTER IX

Who can tell the joy of their awakening? The transcendent pleasure to Paul to be allowed to play with his lady's hair, all unbound for him to do with as he willed? The glory to realise she was his--his own--in his arms?

And then to be tenderly masterful and give himself lordly airs of possession. She was almost silent, only the history of the whole world of pa.s.sion seemed written in her eyes--slumbrous, inscrutable, their heavy lashes making shadows on her soft, smooth cheeks.

The ring-dove was gone, a thing of mystery lay there instead--unresisting, motionless, white. Now and then Paul looked at her half in fear. Was she real? Was it some dream, and would he wake in his room at Verdayne Place among the sporting prints and solid Chippendale furniture to hear Tompson saying, "Eight o'clock, sir, and a fine day"?

Oh, no, no, she was real! He raised himself, and bent down to touch her tenderly with his forefinger. Yes, all this fascination was indeed his, living and breathing and warm, and he was her lover and lord. Ah!