High Noon Part 2

He looked far off, wistfully, to the great pile of the Burgenstock, the one place in the whole world that for him was most rich in tender memories. And yet he knew that its undulating blueness hid hard, relentless rock, as unyielding as the very hand of death itself.

"Love," he said slowly, his heart swelling with the deep sense of his loss, "love should lead to happiness and peace--not to conflict, murder, and sudden death."

And he lay there pondering, until at last, as always in the end, his better genius triumphed. And when the evening suns.h.i.+ne turned the windows of the distant hamlets into tongues of flame and set the waters in the little bay a-dancing, he rowed slowly back to the hotel, his own resourceful English self again.

Far up on the side of the Burgenstock a dim light shone--a faint glow, until a cloud bank, stealing ever nearer, nearer, crept between like some soft curtain, and the silent mystery of the evening fell upon the lake, and wrapped the mountains in a velvet pall.

CHAPTER IV

Nearly a week had pa.s.sed since Paul reached the Mecca of his pilgrimage. Other guests at the hotel had seen little of him, except as they glimpsed him of a morning as he made an early start to some favourite haunt; or again as he returned at night-fall, to pa.s.s quickly through the chattering groups upon the terrace or about the hall and retire to his suite, where usually his dinner was served in solitary state.

His resolutely maintained seclusion was so marked that even his English friends, accustomed as they were to the exclusiveness of their kind, commented on it. Barclay openly lamented, for, as he said, "Was not Sir Paul the best of company when he chose, and why come here to this gay garden spot to mope?"

Daisy Livingstone, the American girl, from that meeting in the train had found a peculiar attraction in her big Englishman, as she called Verdayne playfully when speaking of him to her friends. She knew now, of course, that he was the famous Sir Paul Verdayne, the personage so prominent in British public affairs. And she remembered, too, with a woman's quick intuition for a heart forlorn, Paul's sad, almost melancholy face.

One balmy evening, as she was slowly strolling back and forth beside her mother on the terrace, "Mother," she said in a low voice, "why should Sir Paul look so _triste_? He has everything, apparently, that a man could wish to make him happy--health, wealth, and a success that can be the result only of his own efforts. And yet he is not happy.

What hidden sorrow can he have--some grief, I am sure--that should keep him away from all companions? Every day he goes away alone. And I have seen him almost every night, coming back to the hotel, only to disappear in his rooms, where he must spend many lonely hours."

"Really, Daisy, you are much too interested in this Verdayne. When I was a girl, I never should have paid such close attention to the humour of a strange man. Don't you think that you are becoming altogether too attracted by this Englishman?"

Mrs. Livingstone was an old-fas.h.i.+oned mother who was little in sympathy with the free and easy point of view of radical latter-day Americans.

"Not at all, mother. I find something to interest me in all the people here. Sir Paul is merely a distinct type, just as that awful fat American with the automobile is another in his own way, and that horrid French creature who goes motoring with him every day."

"Then there is the beautiful dark-haired foreign lady, too--she is more fascinating to study than all the rest. She must be a Russian from her colouring, and, besides, she wears those wonderful embroideries. And her servants, too, talk some outlandish gibberish among themselves. Of course she belongs to the n.o.bility, you can see that, even in the way she walks."

"Really, mother, while I'm a true enough American not to be dazzled by the glamour of a coronet, there is something in a long line of well-bred ancestry. You know the old saying, 'Blood will tell.' I've woven quite a fairy story about those wonderful eyes of hers. She is the princess in the fairy story whom some fine prince will find and wake up with a kiss. I wonder--perhaps my Englishman--"

She paused, quite carried away by her own fancy.

"Ah! there she is--my fairy princess--now, down there!" and the girl indicated a rustic seat beneath a spreading cedar some distance below them. As Daisy chattered on, she and her mother had drawn close to the edge of the terrace. And there in the gathering dusk, looking out over the lake, sat the pale-faced lady with the dark hair and the glorious eyes.

As the two Americans stood gazing down the declivity, a small boat cut across their line of vision and came up to the slip with a sweep which only the expert oarsman can achieve.

"The Englishman--Sir Paul!" exclaimed the girl. "You'll see him soon coming up the path that pa.s.ses close to the big cedar."

And even as she spoke, the figure that jumped from the skiff started up the narrow trail. The lady, too, must have been watching him, for she rose suddenly from her seat and quickly gained the terrace, which she crossed immediately to enter the hotel.

"Why did she leave when she saw him coming?" the girl asked, quick to divine the hidden impulse. "Why did she run away like that? I'd rather have stayed and had a good look at him! I wonder if she doesn't want him to see her. Now that I think about it, she never stays where he can meet her."

"Come, child! Don't be absurd!" said Mrs. Livingstone, and locking her arm within that of her daughter's, she drew gently away.

With lagging steps Paul climbed the hill. The natural quieting effect of the day spent in tender cheris.h.i.+ng of old-time memories had not been dispelled by his recent violent exercise, and the rustic bench invited him more than the bustling hotel and the prospect of a dreary dinner. But he forced himself to his tub and evening clothes, and once more dined alone. The fixed habits of a lifetime are not to be lightly set aside for some pa.s.sing whim.

That night would be Paul's last at Lucerne. The week had been one of strain, and there had come over him a fatigue scarcely less intense than he could have felt had he actually experienced anew the scenes he had been living over in imagination. But with weariness had come a resignation which at last seemed final--a renunciation of his dream-life. Now must he put away forever the haunting memories that seemed always outlined, however, dimly, on the tablets of his brain.

To-morrow he would be speeding on his way westward, to London and duty. Can we blame Paul if he shrank a bit from defining the latter too precisely.

He dined very late, and after an hour spent with his cigar, a newspaper, and letters that demanded attention, he felt the oppression of the room and stepped out into the night, where myriads of stars dotted the sky with their bright points. On the bench beneath the great cedar, a little distance down from the terrace, Paul seated himself to enjoy a final cigar. The cool air put new life into him; he felt calmer--more at peace with the world--than had been the case for many years.

All was settled now. He was sure of his ability to return to England, to go straight to Isabella and tell her all. That she would marry him, he had no doubt. Too much of the old fondness still persisted between them for any other outcome to be possible. Indeed, he could see no reason why they should not make each other contented.

Paul no longer used the word happy, even in his solitary thoughts.

Happiness, that priceless elusive treasure, can come only to a heart at peace in the warm suns.h.i.+ne of love. Material things can make for contentment, but ah! how uncertain is that will-o'-the-wisp happiness.

As he sat pondering over the future, which now lay before him more definitely almost than he had dared to think, a faint sound caught his ear--the merest stir as of something moving above him. The stairway leading from the terrace to the path below formed a partial shelter for the bench. He turned instinctively, gazing at the landing, but saw nothing.

He had just decided that his nerves were playing him a trick, when the sound was repeated. This time he felt sure that some one, some thing, was stirring close back of him. Again he turned and scanned the flight of steps, gray in the bright starlight, until suddenly his eyes stood still. They rested as if stopped by some mysterious compelling power--some living magnet that seemed to hold them against his will.

And then in the luminous light the delicate outlines of a face seemed to establish themselves, like a shadowy canvas painted by some fairy brush.

It was a face Paul knew right well, for it had scarcely left him, waking or sleeping, for many, many years. Framed in the dark foliage, it leaned toward him over the parapet, half visible, half obscured.

In a twinkling the weight of a score of years slipped like a cloak from Paul's shoulders. With a wild, choking cry he leaped to his feet, and stretching both his arms above him, "My Queen! my Queen!" he called.

But as he moved the vision vanished. And Paul knew that it was only a cruel jest of Fate, and himself to be as ever but the plaything of his evil genius, which never ceased to torture him. Relentlessly the load of years crept back upon him and like an Old Man of the Sea wound themselves about his shoulders and clutched him in a viselike grip, and he sank with a convulsive gasp upon the bench again.

Soon the spasm pa.s.sed. But for Paul the night was no longer beautiful.

Only unutterable sadness seemed to pervade the place. The very air seemed heavy with oppressive grief. And rising, he tottered like an old man around to the foot of the steps and dragged himself slowly up.

He had reached the landing immediately above the bench he had just quitted when he saw a blur of white--an indistinct patch in the half-light. He reached forward, and his trembling fingers closed upon a lady's handkerchief. And then--he caught the faintest breath of a perfume, strange yet hauntingly familiar, as if the doors of the dead past had opened for an instant.

Heavens! Her perfume! His brain reeled. He rushed up to his sitting-room, and there, under the bright light, he examined the trophy. It was real--there was no doubt about that. Paul had half fancied that after all it was only another trick of his imagination.

But there lay the sc.r.a.p of filmy stuff upon his table, as tangible as the solid oak on which it rested.

He folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. For some moments he pondered over the strange coincidence, and as he thought, the clouds lifted from his brain again. If this were chance, surely there was some consistency in it all. Fortune always sets mile-posts on the road to her, and with a thrill Paul realized that he was still a young man and that this tiny suggestion from the destiny which directs poor mortals' affairs was not to be disregarded. The time for action had come.

He descended briskly to the hall and scanned the visitors' list. The names--most of them--meant nothing. Except for Barclay and his party Paul knew no one in the place. Indeed, he had held himself aloof from chance acquaintances.

By this time no guests remained about the lounge. In the doorway stood Monsieur Jacques. Paul went up to him.

"I found a handkerchief outside just now," he said, forcing a careless voice. "Perhaps the lady to whom it belongs has just come in?"

"No one has entered for a _quart d'heure_, Sir Paul. _Helas!_ It was not so in the old days. It was always gay then at this time of the night, with the band playing and all the guests chattering like mad."

The _maitre d'hotel_ breathed a gentle sigh for the halcyon days of long ago.

Momentarily baffled, to his rooms Paul turned again, and threw himself into a big armchair, where he sat wondering till in the gray light of morning the formless shadows around him took the shape of the luxurious furnis.h.i.+ngs of his suite.

What face had peered at him through the branches? In spite of the token he had found on the steps, Paul could scarcely believe that the vision had been one of flesh and blood. The handkerchief with the familiar scent?--merely an odd coincidence. But still--well, the puzzle might be worth the solving.

At last he rose, and drawing the heavy hangings close to keep out the insistent light, he lay down upon his bed, to fall into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER V