But of what followed afterwards it is difficult to write. For fate struck Paul on that warm June morning, and blasted his life, so that for many days he only saw red, and lived in h.e.l.l.

Every one knows the story which at the time convulsed Europe. How a certain evil-living King, after a wild orgie of mad drunkenness, rode out with two boon companions to the villa of his Queen, and there, forcing an entrance, ran a dagger through her heart before her faithful servants could protect her. And most people were glad, too, that this brute paid the penalty of his crime by his own death--his worthless life choked out of him by the Queen's devoted Kalmuck groom.

But only Paul and his father, and Mark Grigsby, know the details, which were told in Dmitry's heart-broken letter. How that night, the 29th of May, at the hour the Excellency was expected, he--Dmitry--was waiting in the garden to meet him and conduct him through the gloom, when, while he stood there under the stars, the Imperial Highness had called him softly, telling him to take the message down to the Excellency, which he did. How he had never dreamed that immediate danger threatened her, or that the King was there, or he would not have left her for any peril to the Excellency, who was after all a man and could fight. And How Vasili, being younger and more quick of wit, had suspected, hearing his message as he gave it to the Excellency, that all was not well, and had hastened to the house--too late to save his Queen.

And then the faithful servant took up Anna's tale. How this good girl had been watching on the side of the villa towards the town, and had heard the King come battering at the gate. How she had flown to warn her mistress, but that the _Imperatorskoye_ had sent her back to watch, saying she herself would call Dmitry to protect them. Of course--as they now guessed--on purpose that Anna should not hear her message to him--as the Queen knew full well if he--Dmitry--heard from Anna the King was there, and she--the Queen--in danger, he would not leave her, even to do her bidding. Then of how the King had thrust the frightened servants aside, and strode with threats and oaths into the hall, accompanied by his two vile men. And how Anna had implored the Queen to hide while there was yet time.

But how that shining one had stood only listening intently for the sea-bird's cry, and then when she heard it, had turned in triumph to the entering King, saying to Anna that nothing mattered now the Excellency was safe!

On her face, as she looked at this monster, was no dread of death, or aught but scorn and fearless pride. How Anna, seeing the dagger, had screamed, and tried to get between, but had been seized by one of the execrated men, and there been forced to watch the murder of her worshipped Queen. Ah! that had been a moment the saints could never efface! The splendid lady had stood quite still, her head thrown back, while this hound of h.e.l.l had lurched towards her--hissing through his evil teeth this dreadful sentence: "Since thou hast at last obeyed me and found me an heir, making the people love me, I have no more use for thee. It will be a joy to kill thee!"

And with that he had plunged the dagger in her heart.

Of all that followed the Excellency would know. How Vasili had entered, scattering the minions like a mad bull, and springing upon the villainous King, had torn his life out on the marble floor.

Thus ended the letter.

Ah, G.o.d! For Paul had come the tears. But for her--cold steel and blood.

And so, as ever, the woman paid the price.

CHAPTER x.x.x

Now some of you who read will think her death was just, because she was not a moral woman. But others will hold with Paul she was the n.o.blest lady who ever wore a crown. And in all cases she is beyond our puny reasonings.

But her work in Paul's heart still lives, and will live to the end of his life. Although for long months after the agony of that June day, nothing but hate and pa.s.sion and misery had the ruling of him.

He could not bear his kind. His father and Captain Grigsby had left the yacht to him and let him cruise alone. But who can know of the hideous, ghastly hours that Paul spent then, ever obsessed with this one bitter thought? Why had he not gone back? Why had he not gone back when that impulse had seized him? Why had Vasili, and not he, had the satisfaction of killing this vile slayer of his Queen?

Even the remembrance of his child did not rouse him. It was safe with the Grand Duke Peter--a king at four months old! But what of sons, or kings or countries--nothing could make up for the loss of his Queen! And to think that she had died to save him! Save him from what? A brush with three besotted drunkards, whom it would have been great joy to kill!

There were moments when Paul went mad with pa.s.sion, and lay and writhed in his berth. So long months pa.s.sed, and at last he dominated himself enough to come back to his home.

And if the Lady Henrietta had exclaimed that he appeared ill before on his return, she was dumb now with sorrow at the change. For Paul had looked upon Medusa's head of horror, and, as well as his heart, his face seemed turned to stone. He was gentle with his mother, and let her caress him as much as she would, but nothing any one could say could move him--even Pike's joyous greeting.

The whole of G.o.d's world was his enemy--for was he not alone there, robbed of his mate? Presently the reaction from this violence came, and an intense apathy set in. A saltless, tasteless existence. What was Parliament to him? What was his country or his nation? or even his home? Only the hunting when it came gave him some relief, and then if the run were fast enough, or the jumps prodigiously high, or his horses sufficiently fresh to be difficult, his blood ran again for a brief s.p.a.ce. But beyond this life was h.e.l.l, and often he was tempted to use that little pistol of Dmitry's, and end it, and sleep. Only the inherent manly English spirit in him, deep down somewhere, prevented him.

All this time his father grieved and grieved, and the Lady Henrietta spent hours in tears and prayer. Sir Charles had told her their son had met with a great sorrow, and they must bow their heads and leave him in peace, so there were no more gay young parties at Verdayne Place, and gone for ever were the visions of the grandchildren. Only Mark Grigsby was a constant visitor, but then--he knew.

Thus a year pa.s.sed away, and Paul left on a voyage round the world. An Englishman's stern duty to be a man at all costs was calling him at last--bidding him in change of scene to try and overcome the paralysing dominion of his grief. But as far as that went the experiment proved futile. If moments came when circ.u.mstances did divert him, such as one or two great storms he happened to come across, and one or two exciting situations--still, when things were fair and peaceful, back would rush the ever-living ache. That pa.s.sionate void and loss for which there seems no remedy.

Gentle, pleasant women longed to lavish worship upon him, and Paul talked and was polite, but all their sweetness touched him no more than summer ripples stir the bottom of a lake. He seemed impervious to any human influence, though when the look of a mountain or the colour of beech-trees would remind him of the Burgenstock anguish as fresh as ever stabbed his heart. Yet all this while, unknown to himself, his faculties were developing. He read deeply. He had unconsciously grown to apply his darling's lucid reasoning to every detail of his judgment of life. It was as if it had before been written in cypher for him, and she had now given him the key. His mind was untiring in its efforts to master subjects, as his splendid physique seemed tireless in all manner of sport.

Thus he saw the world and its peoples, and was an honoured guest among the great ones of the earth. But the hardness of adamant was in him. He had no beliefs--no ambitions. He dissected everything with all the pitiless certainty of a surgeon's cold knife. And if his life contained an aim at all, it was to get through with it and find oblivion in eternal sleep.

Thoughts of his little son would sometimes come to him, but when they did he thrust them back, and shut his heart up in a casing of ice.

To feel--was to suffer! That perhaps was his only creed; that and a blind, sullen rage against fate. This was the lesson his suffering had taught him, and they were weary years before he knew another side.

The first time he saw a tiger in India was one of the landmarks in the history of his inner emotions. He had gone to shoot the beasts with a well-known Rajah, and it had chanced he came upon a magnificent creature at very close quarters and had shot it on sight. But when it lay dead, its wonderful body gracefully moving no more, a sickening regret came over Paul. Of all things in creation none reminded him so forcibly of his lost worshipped Queen. In a flash came back to him the first day she had lain on the skin which had been his gift. Out of the jungle her eyes seemed to gleam. In his ears rang her words, "I know all your feelings and your pa.s.sions. And now I have your skin--for the joy of my skin." Yes, she had loved tigers, and been in sympathy with them always, and here was one whose joy of life he had ended!

No, he could never kill one more. After this expedition for weeks he was restless--the incident seemed to have pierced through his carefully cultivated calm. For days and days, fresh as in the first hours of his grief, came an infinite sensation of pain--just hideous personal pain.

So time, and his journeys, went on. But no country and no change of scene could dull Paul's sense of loss, and the great vast terrible finality of all hope.

The hackneyed phrase would continually ring in his brain of--Never again--never again! Ah! G.o.d! it was true he would hold his beloved one--never again. And often unavailing rebellion against destiny would rise up in him, and he would almost go mad and see red once more. Then he would rush away from civilisation out into the wild.

But these violent emotions were always followed by a heavy, numb lethargy until some echo or resemblance roused him to suffering again. The scent of tuberoses caused him anguish unspeakable. One night in New York he was obliged to leave the opera because a woman he was with wore some in her dress.

Thus, with all his strong will, there were times when he could not control himself or his grief.

He had been absent from England for over two years, when the news came to him far out in America of his Uncle Hubert's death. So he had gone to join the world of spirits in the vast beyond! Paul did not care! His only feeling was one of relief. No more fear of hearing, perhaps, some chance idle word. But he remembered his mother had loved her handsome brother, and he wrote a tender letter home.

Then something in the Lady Henrietta's answer touched him vaguely and decided him to return. After all--because life was a black barren waste to him--what right had he to dim all joy in the two who had given him being?

Yes, he would go back, and try to pick up the threads anew.

There were great quiet rejoicings in his parents' hearts at their son's third homecoming. And like a wild beast tamed for a time to perform tricks in a circus, Paul conformed to the ordinary routine. The question of his entering Parliament was mooted again, but this he put aside. As yet he could face no ties. He would do his best by staying at home most of the year--but when that call of anguish was upon him, he must be free once more to roam.

Then hope began to bloom in the Lady Henrietta's heart as flowers after rain. Surely this great unknown grief was pa.s.sing--surely her adored one would settle down again.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

But the months went by without healing Paul's grief. Time only coated it with a dull, callous crust. He had got into a hard way of taking everything as it came. He did not fly from society, or ape the manners of the misanthrope; he went to London, and stayed about and played the game. But all with a stony, bald indifference which made people wonder.

No faintest inkling of his story had ever leaked out. And it seemed an incomprehensible att.i.tude towards life for a young and fortunate man.

Those who had looked for great things from his birthday speech shook their heads sadly at the unfulfilment.

So time pa.s.sed on, until one day at the beginning of February, nearly five years after the light had gone out of his life, a circ.u.mstance happened which proved a turning-point of great magnitude.

It was quite a small thing--just the brutalised hardness in a gipsy woman's face!

The sun was setting that late afternoon when he strode home across the moor with Pike, and they came upon some gipsy vans. Paul looked up--it was no unaccustomed sight, only they happened to be in exactly the same spot where the like had stood that morning long ago, when in his exuberant happiness at the news of his little son's birth he had tossed the young woman the sovereign.

The door of the last van was open, and there, sitting on the steps in an att.i.tude of dull sullen idleness, was the same swarthy la.s.s, only now she was altered sadly! No more the proud young mother met his view, but a hard, gaunt, evil-looking woman.

She knew him instantly, and her black eyes fiercened; as he came up close to her she said without any greeting:

"I lost him, your honour--him and my Bill in the same blasted year, and I ain't never had no other."

Paul stopped and peered into her brown face in the fading light.

"So we have been both through h.e.l.l since then, my poor girl?" he said.