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Three Weeks

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<h2 id="id01079" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXVII</h2> 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 château 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. "Thy image, my Paul! English and beautiful, as I said he would be—not black and white like me. And oh! beloved, thou must always increase thy knowledge of statesmancraft to help me to train him well." Then she made a glorious picture of their child's future, and Paul lay back in his chair and closed his eyes—the brightness of it all dazzled him—while his heart flew to her in passionate adoration. She went on to speak of their possible meeting. Her villa was but two hundred yards from the sea, only he must follow exactly all Dmitry's instructions, or there might be danger for them both; but at all costs she could not live much longer without seeing her lover. "Thou art more than a lover now, my Paul—and I am more than ever THINE." Thus it ended. And Paul spent most of the rest of his day reading and re-reading it, and writing his worshipping answer. By night both he and Dmitry had started on their homeward journeys. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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