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Three Weeks

<h2 id="id00208" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER IV</h2> The problem which faced Paul, when he had finished a very late breakfast, was how he should see her soon—the lady in black. He could not go and call like an ordinary visitor, because he did not know her name! That was wonderful—did not even know her name, or anything about her, only that his whole being was thrilling with anxiety to see her again. The simplest thing to do seemed to descend into the hall and look at the Visitors' List, which he promptly did. There were only a few people in the hotel; it was not hard, therefore, guessing at the numbers of the rooms, to arrive at the conviction that "Mme. Zalenska and suite" might be what he was searching for. Zalenska—she was possibly Russian after all. And what was her christian name? That he longed to know. As he stood staring, his fair forehead puckered into a frown of thought, the silver-haired servant came up behind him and said, with his respectful, dignified bearing: "De la part de Madame," handing Paul a letter the while. What could it contain? But this was not the moment for speculation—he would read and see. He turned his back on the servant, and walked towards the light, while he tore open the envelope. It had the most minute sphinx in the corner, and the paper was un-English, and rather thin. This was what he read: "Morning. "Paul, I am young to-day, and we must see the blue lake and the green trees. Come to the landing towards the station, and I will call for you in my launch. And you shall be young, too, Paul—and teach me! Give Dmitry the answer." "The answer is, 'Yes, immediately'—tell Madame," Paul said. And then he trod on air until he arrived at the landing she had indicated. Soon the launch glided up, he saw her there reclining under an awning of striped green. It was a well-arranged launch, the comfortable deck-chairs were in the bows, and the steering took place from a raised perch behind the cabin, so the two were practically alone. The lady was in grey to-day, and it suited her strangely. Her eyes gleamed at him, full of mischief, under her large grey hat. Paul drew his chair a little forward, turning it so that he could look at her without restraint. "How good of you to send for me," he said delightedly. She smiled a radiant smile. "Was it? I am capricious, I did not think of the good for you, only I wanted you—to please myself. I wish to be foolish to-day, Paul, and see your eyes dance, and watch the light on your curls." Paul frowned; it was as if she thought him a baby. Then the lady leant back and laughed, the sound was of golden bells. "Yes, you are a baby!" she said, answering his thoughts. "A great, big, beautiful baby, Paul." If Paul had been a girl he would have pouted. She turned from him and gazed over the lake; it was looking indescribably beautiful, with the colours of the springtime. "Do you see the green of those beeches by the water, Paul? Look at their tenderness, next the dark firs—and then the blue beyond—and see, there is a copper beech, he is king of them all! I would like to build a châlet up in some part like that, and come there each year in May—to read fairy-tales." For the first time in his life Paul saw with different eyes—just the beauty of things—and forgot to gauge their sporting possibilities. An infinite joy was flooding his being, some sensation he had not dreamed about even, of happiness and fulfilment. She appeared to him more alluring than ever, and young and gay—as young as Isabella! And then his thoughts caused him to take in his breath with a hiss—Isabella—how far away she seemed. Of course he could never love any one else—but— "Don't think of it, then," the lady whispered. "Be young like me, and live under the blue sky." How was it she knew his thoughts always? He blushed while he stammered: "No—I won't think of it—or anything but you—Princess." "Daring one!" she said, "who told you to call me that? The hotel people have been talking, I suppose." "No," said Paul, surprised, "I called you Princess just because you seem like one to me—but now I guess from what you say, you are not plain Madame Zalenska." Her eyes clouded for a second. "Madame Zalenska does to travel with—but you shall call me what you like." He grew emboldened. "I suddenly feel I want so much—I want to know why your eyes were so mocking through the trees on the Bürgenstock? They drove me nearly mad, you know, and I raced about after you like a dog after a hare!" "I thought you would—you did not control the expression when you gazed up at me! And so I was the true hare—and ran away!" She looked down suddenly and was silent for some moments, then she turned the conversation from these personal things. She led his thoughts into new channels—made him observe the trees and sky, and the wonderful beauty of it all, and with lightning flashes took him into unknown speculations on emotions and the meaning of things. A new existence seemed to open to Paul's view. And all the while she lay back in her chair almost motionless, only her wonderful eyes lit up the strange whiteness of her face. There was not a touch of mauvaise honte, or explanation of the unusualness of this situation in her manner. It had a perfect, quiet dignity, as if to look into the eyes of an unknown young man at night over an ivy terrace, and then spend a day with him alone, were the most natural things in the world to do. Paul felt she was a queen whose actions must be left unquestioned. Presently they came to a small village, and here she would land and lunch. And from somewhere behind the cabin Dmitry appeared, and was sent on ahead, so that when they walked into the little hotel a simple repast was waiting for them. By this time Paul was absolutely enthralled. Never in his whole life had he spent such a morning. His imagination was expanded. He saw new vistas. His brain almost whirled. Was it he—Paul Verdayne—who was seated opposite this divine woman, drinking in her voice, and listening to her subtle curious thoughts? And what were the commonplace, ordinary things which had hitherto occupied his mind? How had he ever wasted a moment on them? It was his first awakening. When it came to the end—this delightful repast—he called the waiter, and wanted to pay the bill; small enough in all conscience. But a new look appeared round the lady's mouth—imperious, with an instantaneous flash in her eyes—a pure, steel-grey they were to-day. "Leave it to Dmitry," she said quickly. "I never occupy myself with money. They displease me, these details—and why spoil my day?" But Paul was an Englishman, and resented any woman's paying for his food. His mouth changed, too, and looked obstinate. "I say, you know—" he began. Then she turned upon him. "Understand at once," she said haughtily. "Either you leave me unjarred by your English conventionalities, or you pay these miserable francs and go back to Lucerne alone!" Paul shrugged his shoulders. He was angry, but could not insist further. When they got outside, her voice grew caressing again as she led the way to a path up among the young beeches. "Paul—foolish one!" she said. "Do you not think I understand and know you—and your quaint English ways? But imagine how silly it is. I am quite aware that you have ample money to provide me with a feast of Midas—all of gold—if necessary, and you shall some day, if you really wish. But to stop over paltry sums of francs, to destroy the thread of our conversation and thoughts—to make it all banal and everyday! That is what I won't have. Dmitry is there for nothing else but to éviter for me these details. It is my holiday, my pleasure-day, my time of joy. I felt young, Paul. You would not make one little shadow for me—would you, ami?" No voice that he had ever dreamt of possessed so many tones in it as hers—even one of pathos, as she lingered over the word "shadow," All his annoyance melted. He only felt he would change the very mainspring of his life if necessary to give her pleasure and joy. "Of course I would not make a shadow,—surely you know that," he said, moved. "Only you see a man generally pays for a woman's food." "When she belongs to him—but I don't belong to you, baby Paul. You, for the day, belong to me—and are my guest!" "Very well, then, we won't talk about it," he said, resigned by the caress in her words. To belong to her! That was something, if but for one day. "Only it must never come up again, this question", she insisted. "Should we spend more hours on this lake, or other lakes—or mountains, or rivers, or towns—let us speak never of money, or paying. If you only knew of how I hate it! the cruel yellow gold! I have heaps of it—heaps of it! and for it human beings have always paid so great a price. Just this once in life let it bring happiness and peace." He wondered at the concentrated feeling she expressed. What could the price be? And what was her history?" "So it is over, our little breeze," she said gently, after a pause. "And you will tease me no more, Paul?" "I would never tease you!" he exclaimed tenderly. And, if he had dared, he would have taken her hand. "You English are so wonderful! Full of your prejudices," she said in a contemplative way. "Bulldog tenacity of purpose, whether you are right or wrong. Things are a custom, and they must be done, or it is not 'playing the game,'" and she imitated a set English voice, her beautiful mouth pursed up, until Paul had to use violent restraint with himself to keep from kissing it. "A wonderful people—mostly gentlemen and generally honest, but of a common sense that is disastrous to sentiment or romance. If you were not so polished, and lazy and strong—and beautiful to look at, one would not consider you much beyond the German." "Not consider us beyond a beastly German!" exclaimed Paul indignantly. And the lady laughed like a child. "Oh! you darling Paul!" she said. "You dear, insular, arrogant Englishman! You have no equal in the world!" Paul was offended. "If you had said an Austrian now—but a German—" he growled sulkily. "The Austrians are charming," allowed the lady, "but they err the other way; they have not enough common sense, they are only great gentlemen. Also, they are naturally awake, whereas you English are naturally asleep, and you yourself are the Sleeping Beauty, Paul." They had climbed up the path now some two hundred feet, and all around them were stripling beeches of an unnaturally exquisite green, as fresh and pure and light almost as leaves of the forced lily of the valley. The whole world throbbed with youth and freshness, and here and there, wide of the path, by a mossy stone, a gentian raised its azure head, "small essences of sky;" the lady called them. "Let us sit down on this piece of rock," Paul said. "I want to hear why I am the Sleeping Beauty. It is so long since I read the story. But wasn't it about a girl, not a man—and didn't she get wakened up by a—kiss?" "She did!" said the lady, leaning back against a tree behind her; "but then it was just her faculties which were asleep, not her soul. Could a kiss wake a soul?" "I think so," Paul whispered. He was seated on a part of the rock which jutted out a little lower than her resting-place, and he was so close as to be almost touching her. He could look up under the brim of that tantalising hat, which so often hid her from his view as they walked. He was quivering with excitement at this moment, the result of the thought of a kiss—and his blue eyes blazed with desire as they devoured her face. "Yes—it is so," said the lady, a low note in her voice. "Because Huldebrand gave Undine a soul with a kiss." "Tell me about it," implored Paul. "I am so ignorant. Who was Huldebrand, and what did he do?" So she began in a dreamy voice, and you who have read De la Motte Fouqué's dry version of this exquisite legend would hardly have recognised the poetry and pathos and tender sentiment she wove round those two, and the varied moods of Undine, and the passion of her knight. And when she came to the evening of their wedding, when the young priest had placed their hands together, and listened to their vows—when Undine had found her soul at last, in Huldebrand's arms—her voice faltered, and she stopped and looked down. "And then?" said Paul, and his breath came rather fast. "And then?" "He was a man, you see, Paul; so when he had won her love, he did not value it—he threw it away." "Oh, no! I don't believe it!" Paul exclaimed vehemently. "It was just this brute Huldebrand. But you don't know men—to think they do not value what they win—you don't know them, indeed!" She looked down straight into his face, as he gazed up at her, and to his intense surprise he could have sworn her eyes were green now! as green as emeralds. And they held him and fascinated him and paralysed him, like those of a snake. "I do not know men?" she said softly. "You think not, Paul?" But Paul could hardly speak, he buried his face in her lap, like a child, and kept it there, kissing her gloved hands. His straw hat, with its Zingari ribbon, lay on the grass beside him, and a tiny shaft of sunlight glanced through the trees, gilding the crisp waves of his brushed-back hair into dark burnished gold. The lady moved one hand from his impassioned caress, and touched the curl with her finger-tips. She smiled with the tenderness a mother might have done. "There—there!" she said. "Not yet." Then she drew her hand away from him and leant back, half closing her eyes. Paul sat up and stared around. Each moment of the day was providing new emotions for him. Surely this was what Columbus must have felt, nearing the new world. He pulled himself together. She was not angry then at his outburst, and his caress—though something in her face warned him not to err again. "Tell me the rest," he said pleadingly. "Why did he not value Undine's love, and what made the fool throw it away?" "Because he possessed it, you see," said the lady. "That was reason enough, surely." Then she told him of the ceasing of Undine's wayward moods after she had received her soul—of her docility—of her tenderness—of Huldebrand's certainty of her love. Then of his inevitable weariness. And at last of the Court, and the meeting again with Hildegarde, and of all the sorrow that followed, until the end, when the fountains burst their stoppings and rushed upwards, wreathing themselves into the figure of Undine, to take her Love to death with her kiss. "Oh! he was wise!" Paul said. "He chose to die with her kiss. He knew at last then—what he had thrown away." "That one learns often, Paul, when it has grown—too late! Come, let us live in the sunshine. Live while we may." And the lady rose, and giving him her hand, she almost ran into the bright light of day, where even no tender shadows fell. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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