Three Weeks Part 18

But on the way they stopped at Jesurum's, and she supervised Paul's purchases for his mother, and allowed him to buy herself some small gifts.

And between them they spent a good deal of money, and laughed over it like happy children. So when they got back to the palazzo there was joy in their hearts like the sunlight of the late afternoon.

She would not let Paul go on to the loggia overlooking the Grand Ca.n.a.l. He had noticed as they pa.s.sed that some high screens of lilac-bushes had been placed in front of the wide arched openings. No fear of prying eyes from opposite houses now! And yet they were not too high to prevent those in the loggia from seeing the moon and the sky. Their feast was preparing evidently, and he knew it would be a night of the G.o.ds.

But from then until it was time to dress for dinner his lady decreed that they should rest in their rooms.

"Thou must sleep, my Paul," she said, "so that thy spirit may be fresh for new joys."

And it was only after hard pleading she would allow him to have it that they rested on the other loggia couches, so that his closing eyes might know her near.

CHAPTER XIX

No Englishwoman would have thought of the details which made the Feast of the Full Moon so wonderful in Paul's eyes. It savoured rather of other centuries and the days of Imperial Rome, and indeed, had his lady been one of Britain's daughters, he too might have found it a little _bizarre_. As it was, it was all in the note--the exotic note of Venice and her spells.

The lady had gone to her room when he woke on the loggia, and he had only time to dress before the appointed moment when he was to meet her in the little salon.

She was seated on the old Venetian chair she had bought in Lucerne when Paul entered--the most radiant vision he had yet seen. Her garment was pale-green gauze. It seemed to cling in misty folds round her exquisite shape; it was clasped with pearls; the most magnificent ones hung in a row round her throat and fell from her ears. A diadem confined her glorious hair, which descended in the two long strands twisted with chains of emeralds and diamonds. Her whole personality seemed breathing magnificence and panther-like grace. And her eyes glowed with pa.s.sion, and mystery, and force.

Paul knelt like a courtier, and kissed her hand. Then he led her to their feast.

Dmitry raised the curtain of the loggia door as they approached, and what a sight met Paul's view!

The whole place had been converted into a bower of roses. The walls were entirely covered with them. A great couch of deepest red ones was at one side, fixed in such ma.s.ses as to be quite resisting and firm. From the roof chains of roses hung, concealing small lights--while from above the screen of lilac-bushes in full bloom the moon in all her glory mingled with the rose-shaded lamps and cast a glamour and unreality over the whole.

The dinner was laid on a table in the centre, and the table was covered with tuberoses and stephanotis, surrounding the cupid fountain of perfume.

The scent of all these flowers! And the warm summer night! No wonder Paul's senses quivered with exaltation. No wonder his head swam.

They had scarcely been seated when from the great salon, whose open doors were hidden by falling trellises of roses, there came the exquisite sounds of violins, and a boy's plaintive voice. A concert of all sweet airs played softly to further excite the sense. Paul had not thought such musicians could be obtained in Venice, and guessed, and rightly, that, like the cook and the artist who had designed it, they hailed from Paris, to beautify this night.

Throughout the repast his lady bewildered him with her wild fascination.

Never before had she seemed to collect all her moods into one subtle whole, cemented together by pa.s.sionate love. It truly was a night of the G.o.ds, and the exaltation of Paul's spirit had reached its zenith.

"My Paul," she said, when at last only the rare fruits and the golden wine remained, and they were quite alone--even the musicians had retired, and their airs floated up from a gondola below. "My Paul, I want you never to forget this night--never to think of me but as gloriously happy, clasped in your arms amid the roses. And see, we must drink once more together of our wedding wine, and complete our souls' delight."

An eloquence seemed to come to Paul and loosen his tongue, so that he whispered back paeans of wors.h.i.+p in language as fine as her own. And the moon flooded the loggia with her light, and the roses gave forth their scent. It was the supreme effort of art and nature to cover them with glorious joy.

"My darling one," the lady whispered in his ear, as she lay in his arms on the couch of roses, crushed deep and half buried in their velvet leaves, "this is our souls' wedding. In life and in death they can never part more."

Dawn was creeping through the orchid blinds of their sleeping chamber when this strange Queen disengaged herself from her lover's embrace, and bent over him, kissing his young curved lips. He stirred not--the languor of utter prostration was upon him, and held him in its grasp. In the uncertain light his sleep looked pale as death.

The lady gazed at him, an anguish too deep for tears in her eyes. For was not this the end--the very end? Fierce, dry sobs shook her. There was something terrible and tigerish in her grief. And yet her will made her not linger--there was still one thing to do.

She rose and turned to the writing-table by the window, then drawing the blind aside a little she began rapidly to write. When she had finished, without reading the missive over, she went and placed it with a flat leather jewel-case on her pillow beside Paul. And soon she commenced a madness of farewells--all restrained and gentle for fear he should awake.

"My love, my love," she wailed between her kisses, "G.o.d keep you safe--though He may never bring you back to me."

Then with a wild, strangled sob, she fled from the room.

CHAPTER XX

A hush was over everything when Paul first awoke--the hush of a hot, drowsy noontide.

He stretched out his arm to touch his loved one, as was his custom, to draw her near and envelop her with caresses and greeting--an instinct which came to him while yet half asleep.

But his arm met empty s.p.a.ce. What was this? He opened his eyes wide and sat up in bed. He was alone--where had she gone? He had slept so late, that was it. She was playing one of her sweet tricks upon him. Perhaps she was even hiding behind the curtain which covered the entrance to the side loggia where they were accustomed to breakfast. He would look and see. He rose quickly and lifted the heavy drapery. No--the loggia was untenanted, and breakfast was laid for one! That was the first chill--for one! Was she angry at his drowsiness? Good G.o.d! what could it mean? He staggered a little, and sat on the bed, clutching the fine sheet. And as he did so it disclosed the letter and the flat leather case, which had fallen from the pillow and become hidden in the clothes.

A deadly faintness came over Paul. For a few seconds he trembled so his shaking fingers refused to hold the paper. Then with a mighty effort he mastered himself, and tearing the envelope open began to read.

It was a wonderful letter. The last pa.s.sionate cry of her great loving heart. It pa.s.sed in review their glorious days in burning words--from the first moment of their meeting. And then, towards the end, "My Paul," she wrote, "that first night you were my caprice, and afterwards my love, but now you are my life, and for this I must leave you, to save that life, sweet lover. Seek me not, heart of my heart. Believe me, I would not go if there were any other way. Fate is too strong for us, and I must bow my head. Were I to remain even another hour, all Dmitry's watching could not keep you safe. Darling, while I thought they menaced me alone, it only angered me, but now I know that you would pay the penalty, I can but go. If you follow me, it will mean death for us both. Oh! Paul, I implore you, by our great love, go into safety as soon as you can. You must leave Venice, and return straight to England, and your home. Darling--beloved--lover--if we never meet again in this sad world let this thought stay with you always, that I love you--heart and mind--body and soul--I am utterly and forever YOURS."

As he read the last words the room became dark for Paul, and he fell back like a log on the bed, the paper fluttering to the floor from his nerveless fingers.

She was gone--and life seemed over for him.

Here, perhaps an hour later, Tompson found him still unconscious, and in terrified haste sent off for a doctor, and telegraphed to Sir Charles Verdayne:

"Come at once, TOMPSON."

But ere his father could arrive on Sunday, Paul was lying 'twixt life and death, madly raving with brain fever.

And thus ended the three weeks of his episode.

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 of delirium to awaken in great weakness to a sense of hideous anguish and loss--to the prospect of days of aching void and hopeless longing, to the hourly, momentary sting of remembrance of things vaster than death, more dear 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 to Paul.

He never really questioned the finality of her decree, he _sensed_ it meant parting for ever. And yet, with that spring of eternal hope which animates all living souls, unbidden arguings and possibilities rose in his enfeebled brain, and deepened his unrest. Thus his progress towards convalescence was long and slow.

And all this time his father and Tompson had nursed him in the old Venetian palazzo with tenderest devotion.

The Italian servants had been left, paid up for a month, but the lady and her Russian retinue had vanished, leaving no trace.

Both Tompson and Sir Charles knew almost the whole story now from Paul's ravings, and neither spoke of it--except that Tompson supplied some links to complete Sir Charles' picture.