Three Weeks Page 25

  CHAPTER XXV

  The days passed on, March had almost come, and Paul heard nothing. Hisfather noticed the daily look of strain, and his mother anxiously inquiredif he were dull, and if he would not like her to have some people to stay,and thus divert him in some fashion. And Paul had answered with what gracehe could.

  An intense temptation came over him to read all the Court news. He longedto pick up the ladies' papers he saw in his mother's sitting-room; suchjournals, he knew, delighted to publish the doings of royal lives. But thestern self-control which now he practised in all the ruling of his lifeprevented him. No, he had promised never to investigate--and neither in theletter, nor the spirit, would he break his word, whatever thesuffering. The news, when it came, must be from his beloved one direct.

  But oh! the unrest of these hours. Had their hope come true?--and how wasshe? The days passed in a gnawing anxiety. He was so restless he couldhardly fix his attention on anything. It required the whole of his will tokeep him taking in the sense of the Parliamentary books which were now hisstudy. The constant query would raise its head between each page--"Whatnews of my Queen?--what news of my Queen?"

  Each mail as it came in made his heart beat, and often his hand trembled ashe lifted his pile of letters. But no sight of her writing gladdened hiseyes, until he began to be like the sea and its tides, rising twice a dayin a rushing hope with the posts, and sinking again in disappointment.

  He grew to look haggard, and his father's heart ached for him insilence. At length one morning, when he had almost trained himself not toglance at his correspondence, which came as he was dawdling over an earlybreakfast, his eye caught a foreign-looking letter lying on the top. Itwas no hand he knew--but something told him it contained a message--fromhis Queen.

  He dominated himself; he would not even look at the postmark until he wasaway up in his own room. No eye but Pike's must see his joy--or sorrow anddisappointment. And so the letter burnt in his pocket until his sanctum wasreached, and then with agonised impatience he opened the envelope.

  Within was another of the familiar paper he knew, and ah! thank God,addressed in pencil in his lady's own hand. Inside it contained anenclosure, but the sheet was blank. With wildly beating heart and tremblingfingers Paul undid the smaller packet's folded ends. And there the morningsunbeams fell on a tiny curl of hair, of that peculiar nondescript shade ofinfant fairness which later would turn to gold. It was less than an inchlong, and of the fineness of down, while in tender care it had been tiedwith a thread of blue silk.

  Written on the paper underneath were the words:

  "Beloved, he is so strong and fair, thy son, born the 19th of February."

  For a moment Paul closed his eyes, and as once before a choir of seraphimswere singing in his ears.

  Then he looked at this minute lock again, and touched it with hisforefinger. The strangest emotion he had ever known quivered through hisbeing--the concentrated sensation of what he used to feel when his lady hadspoken of their hope--a weird, tremulous, physical thrill. The dear smallcurl of hair! The actual, tangible proof of his own living son. He liftedit with the greatest reverence to his lips, and a mist of joy swam in hisblue eyes. Ah! it was all too wonderful--too divine the thought! Theessence of their great love--this child of his and hers. His and hers!Yes, their hope had not deceived them. It was true! It was true!

  Then his mind rose in passionate worship of his lady. His goddess andQueen--the mainspring of his watch of life--the supreme and absolutemistress of his heart and soul. Never had he more madly desired and lovedher than this day. He kissed and kissed her words in deep devotion.

  But how and where was she?--was she well?--was she ill? Had she beensuffering? Oh! that he could fly to her. More than ever the terrible gallof their separation came to him. It was his right, by every law of nature,to now be by her side.

  But she was well--she must be well, or she would have said, and surely hesoon would see her.

  It was like a voice from heaven, her little written words, bridging theimpossible--drawing him back to the knowledge and certainty that she wasthere, for him to love, and one day to go to. Fate could never be so unjustas to part him from--the mother of his child.

  And then a state of mad ecstasy came over Paul with that vision; he couldnot stay in the house; he must go out under God's sky, and let hissoul-thoughts fly into space. Dazzling pictures came to him; surely thespring was in his heart breaking through the frozen ground like a singlegolden crocus he saw at his feet--surely, surely the sun of life wouldshine again, and living he should see her.

  He strode away, Pike gambolling beside him, and racing ahead and backagain, seeming to understand and participate in his master's inward joy.

  Paul hardly noticed where he went, his thoughts exalting him so that he didnot even heed to choose his favourite haunt, the wood against thesky-line. It was as if great blocks of icy fear and anguish were melting inthe warmth. Hope and glory shone on his path, almost blinding him.

  He left the park far behind, and struck away across the moor. As he passedsome gipsy vans a swarthy young woman looked out, an infant in her arms,and gave him a smiling greeting. But Paul stopped and said good-day,tossing her a sovereign with laughing, cheery words--for her littlechild--and so passed on, his glad face radiant as the morn.

  But the woman called after him in gratitude:

  "Blessings on your honour. Your own will grace a throne."

  And the strange coincidence of her prophecy set fresh thrills of delightbounding in Paul's veins.

  He walked and walked, stopping to lunch at an inn miles away. He could notbear even to see his parents--or the familiar scenes at home; and as oncebefore he had felt in his grief--he and his joy must be alone to-day.

  When he turned to come back in the late afternoon, the torrent of his wildhappiness had crystallised itself into coherent thought and question.Surely she would send him some more words and make some plan to seehim. But at least he was in touch with her again and knew she was hisown--his own. The silence had broken, and human ingenuity would find someway of meeting.

  The postmark was Vienna--though that meant nothing at all; she could havesent Dmitry there to post the letter. But at best, even if it were Russia,a few days' journey only separated him from his darling and--his son! Thenthe realisation of that proud fact of parenthood came over him again. Hesaid the words aloud, "My son!"

  And with a cry of wild exaltation he vaulted a gate like a schoolboy andran along the path, Pike bounding in the air in frantic sympathy. Thus Paulreturned to his home again, hope singing in his heart.

  * * * * *

  But even his father did not guess why that night at dinner he raised hischampagne glass and drank a silent toast--his eyes gazing into distance asif he there saw heaven.