CHAPTER XXI
Have any of you who read crept back to life from nearly beyond the grave?Crept back to find it shorn of all that made it fair? After hours ofdelirium to awaken in great weakness to a sense of hideous anguish andloss--to the prospect of days of aching void and hopeless longing, to thehourly, momentary sting of remembrance of things vaster than death, moredear than life itself? If you have come through this valley of the shadow,then you can know what the first days of returning consciousness meant toPaul.
He never really questioned the finality of her decree, he _sensed_ it meantparting for ever. And yet, with that spring of eternal hope which animatesall living souls, unbidden arguings and possibilities rose in his enfeebledbrain, and deepened his unrest. Thus his progress towards convalescence waslong and slow.
And all this time his father and Tompson had nursed him in the old Venetianpalazzo with tenderest devotion.
The Italian servants had been left, paid up for a month, but the lady andher Russian retinue had vanished, leaving no trace.
Both Tompson and Sir Charles knew almost the whole story now from Paul'sravings, and neither spoke of it--except that Tompson supplied some linksto complete Sir Charles' picture.
"She was the most splendid lady you could wish to see, Sir Charles," thestolid creature finished with. "Her servants worshipped her--and ifMr. Verdayne is ill now, he is ill for no less than a Queen."
This fact comforted Tompson greatly, but Paul's father found in it noconsolation.
The difficulty had been to prevent his mother from descending uponthem. She must ever be kept in ignorance of this episode in her son's life.She belonged to the class of intellect which could never haveunderstood. It would have been an undying shock and horrified grief to theend of her life--excellent, loving, conventional lady!
So after the first terrible danger was over, Sir Charles made light oftheir son's illness. Paul and he were enjoying Venice, he said, and wouldsoon be home. "D--d hard luck the boy getting fever like this!" he wrotein his laconic style, "but one never could trust foreign countries'drains!"
And the Lady Henrietta waited in unsuspecting, well-bred patience.
Those were weary days for every one concerned. It wrung his father's heartto see Paul prostrate there, as weak as an infant. All his splendid youthand strength conquered by this raging blast. It was sad to have to listento his ever-constant moan:
"Darling, come back to me--darling, my Queen."
And even after he regained consciousness, it was equally pitiful to watchhim lying nerveless and white, blue shadows on his once fresh skin. Andmost pitiful of all were his hands, now veined and transparent, fallingidly upon the sheet.
But at least the father realised it could have been no ordinary woman whosegoing caused the shock which--even after a life of three weeks' continualemotion--could prostrate his young Hercules. She must have been worthsomething--this tiger Queen.
And one day, contrary to his usual custom, he addressed Tompson:
"What sort of a looking woman, Tompson?"
And Tompson, although an English valet, did not reply, "Who, SirCharles?"--he just rounded his eyes stolidly and said in his monotonousvoice:
"She was that forcible-looking, a man couldn't say when he got close, shekind of dazzled him. She had black hair, and a white face,and--and--witch's eyes, but she was very kind and overpowering, haughtyand generous. Any one would have known she was a Queen."
"Young?" asked Sir Charles.
Tompson smoothed his chin: "I could not say, Sir Charles. Some days abouttwenty-five, and other days past thirty. About thirty-three to thirty-five,I expect she was, if the truth were known."
"Pretty?"
The eyes rounded more and more. "Well, she was so fascinatin', I can't say,Sir Charles--the most lovely lady I ever did see at times, Sir Charles."
"Humph," said Paul's father, and then relapsed into silence.
"She'd a beast of a husband; he might have been a King, but he was nogentleman," Tompson ventured to add presently, fearing the "Humph" perhapsmeant disapprobation of this splendid Queen. "Her servants were close, anddid not speak good English, so I could not get much out of them, but theman Vasili, who came the last days, did say in a funny lingo, which I hadto guess at, as how he expected he should have to kill him some time.Vasili had a scar on his face as long as your finger that he'd gotdefending the Queen from her husband's brutality, when he was the worse fordrink, only last year. And Mr. Verdayne is so handsome. It is no wonder,Sir Charles--"
"That will do, Tompson," said Sir Charles, and he frowned.
The fatal letter, carefully sealed up in a new envelope, and the leathercase were in his despatch-box. Tompson had handed them to him on hisarrival. And one day when Paul appeared well enough to be lifted into along chair on the side loggia, his father thought fit to give them to him.
Paul's apathy seemed paralysing. The days had passed, since the littleItalian doctor had pronounced him out of danger, in one unending languidquietude. He expressed interest in no single thing. He was polite, andindifferent, and numb.
"He must be roused now," Sir Charles said to the doctor. "It is too hot forVenice, he must be moved to higher air," and the little man had nodded hishead.
So this warm late afternoon, as he lay under the mosquito curtains--whichthe coming of June had made necessary in this paradise--his father said tohim:
"I have a letter and a parcel of yours, Paul: you had better look atthem--we hope to start north in a day or two--you must get to a morebracing place."
Then he had pushed them under the net-folds, and turned his back on thescene.
The blood rushed to Paul's face, but left him deathly pale after a fewmoments. And presently he broke the seal. The minute Sphinx in the cornerof the paper seemed to mock at him. Indeed, life was a riddle of anguishand pain. He read the letter all over--and read it again. The passionatewords of love warmed him now that he had passed the agony of the farewell.One sentence he had hardly grasped before, in particular held balm."Sweetheart," it said, "you must not grieve--think always of the futureand of our hope. Our love is not dead with our parting, and one daythere will be the living sign--" Yes, that thought was comfort--but howshould he know?
Then he turned to the leather case. His fingers were still so feeble thatwith difficulty he pressed the spring to open it.
He glanced up at his father's distinguished-looking back outlined againstthe loggia's opening arches. It appeared uncompromising. A fixeddetermination to stare at the oleanders below seemed the only spiritanimating this parent.
Yes--he must open the box. It gave suddenly with a jerk, and there lay adog's collar, made of small flexible plates of pure beaten gold, mounted onRussian leather, all of the finest workmanship. And on a slip of paper inhis darling's own writing he read:
"This is for Pike, my beloved one; let him wear it always--a gift from me."
On the collar itself, finely engraved, were the words, "Pike, belonging toPaul Verdayne."
Then the floodgates of Paul's numbed soul were opened, a great sob rose inhis breast. He covered his face with his hands, and cried like a child.
Oh! her dear thought! her dear, tender thought--for Pike! His littlefriend!
And Sir Charles made believe he saw nothing, as he stole from the place,his rugged face twitching a little, and his keen eyes dim.