Then she told him of the ceasing of Undine's wayward moods after she had received her soul--of her docility--of her tenderness--of Huldebrand's certainty of her love. Then of his inevitable weariness. And at last of the Court, and the meeting again with Hildegarde, and of all the sorrow that followed, until the end, when the fountains burst their stoppings and rushed upwards, wreathing themselves into the figure of Undine, to take her Love to death with her kiss.

"Oh! he was wise!" Paul said. "He chose to die with her kiss. He knew at last then--what he had thrown away."

"That one learns often, Paul, when it has grown--too late! Come, let us live in the sunshine. Live while we may."

And the lady rose, and giving him her hand, she almost ran into the bright light of day, where even no tender shadows fell.

CHAPTER V

Their return journey was one of quiet. The lady talked little, she leant back and looked away across the blue lake, often apparently unconscious of his presence. This troubled Paul. Had he wearied her?

What should he do? He was growing aware of the fact that she was not a bit like his mother, or Isabella, or any of the other women whom he knew--people whose moods he had never even speculated about--if they had any--which he doubted.

Why wouldn't she speak? Had she forgotten him? He felt chilled and saddened.

At last, as they neared a small bay where another tempting little chalet-hotel mirrored itself in the clear water, he spoke. A note in his voice--his charming young voice--as of a child in distress.

"Are--are you cross with me?"

Then she came back from her other world. "Cross with you? Foolish one! No, I am dreaming. And I forgot that you could not know yet, or understand. English Paul! who would have me make conversation and chatter commonplaces or he feels a _gene!_ See, I will take you where I have been into this infinite sky and air"--she let her hand fall on his arm and thrilled him--"look up at Pilatus. Do you see his head so snowy, and all the delicate shadows upon him, and his look of mystery? And those dark pines--and the great chasms, and the wild anger the giants were in when they hurled these huge rocks about? I have been with them, and you and I seem such little people, Paul. We cannot throw great rocks about--we are only two small ants in this grand world."

Paul's face was puzzled, he did not believe in giants. His mind was not accustomed yet to these flights of speech, he felt stupid and irritated with himself, and in some way humiliated. The lady leant over him, her face playfully tender.

"Great blue eyes!" she said. "So pretty, so pretty! What matter whether they can see or no?" And she touched his lids with her slender fingers.

Paul quivered in his chair.

"You know!" he gasped. "You make me mad--I----But won't you teach me to see? No one wants to be blind! Teach me to see with your eyes, lady--my lady."

"Yes, I will teach you!" she said. "Teach you a number of things. Together we will put on the hat of darkness and go down into Hades. We shall taste the apples of the Hesperides--we will rob Mercure of his sandals--and Gyges of his ring. And one day, Paul--when together we have fathomed the meaning of it all--what will happen then, _enfant?_"

Her last word, "_enfant,_" was a caress, and Paul was too bewildered with joy to answer her for a moment.

"What will happen?" he said at last. "I shall just love you--that's all!"

Then he remembered Isabella Waring, and suddenly covered his face with his hands.

They stopped for tea at the quaint chalet-hotel, and after it they wandered to pick gentians. The lady was sweet and sympathetic and gay; she ceased startling him with wild fancies; indeed, she spoke of simple everyday things, and got him to tell her of his home and Oxford, and his horses and his dogs. And when they arrived at the subject of Pike, her sympathy drew Paul nearer to her than ever. Of course she would love Pike if she only knew him! Who could help loving a dog like Pike? And his master waxed eloquent. Then, when he looked away, the lady's weird chameleon eyes melted upon him in that strange tenderness which might have been a mother's watching the gambols of her babe.

The shadows were quite deep when at last they decided to return to Lucerne--a small bunch of heaven's own blue flower the only trophy of the day.

Paul had never enjoyed himself so much in his twenty-three years of life. And what would the evening bring? Surely more joy. This parting at the landing could not be good-night!

But as the launch glided nearer and nearer his heart fell, and at last he could bear the uncertainty no longer.

"And for dinner?" he said. "Won't you dine me, my Princess? Let me be your host, as you have been mine all to-day."

But a stiffness seemed to fall upon her suddenly--she appeared to have become a stranger again almost.

"Thank you, no. I cannot dine," she said. "I must write letters--and go to sleep."

Paul felt an ice-hand clutching his heart. His face became so blank as to almost pale before her eyes.

She leant forward, and smiled. "Will you be lonely, Paul? Then at ten o'clock you must come under the ivy and wish me good-night."

And this was all he could gain from her. She landed him to walk back to the hotel at the same place from which they had embarked, and the launch struck out again into the lake.

He walked fast, just to be near enough to see her step ash.o.r.e on to the hotel wharf, but he could not arrive in time, and her grey figure disappearing up the terrace steps was all his hungry eyes were vouchsafed.

The weariness of dinner! What did it matter what the food was? What did it matter that a new family of quite nice English people had arrived, and sat near? A fresh young girl and a youth, and a father and mother. People who would certainly play billiards and probably bridge. What did anything matter in the world? Time must be got through, simply got through until ten o'clock--that was all.

At half-past nine he strode out and sat upon the bench. His thoughts went back in a constant review of the day. How she had looked, where they had sat, what she had said. Why her eyes seemed green in the wood and blue on the water. Why her voice had all those tones in it. Why she had been old and young, and wise and childish. Then he thought of the story of Undine and the lady's strange, snake's look when she had said: "I do not know men?--You think not, Paul?"

His heart gave a great bound at the remembrance. He permitted himself no speculation as to where he was drifting. He just sat there thrilling in every limb and every sense and every quality of his brain.

As the clocks chimed the hour something told him she was there above him, although he heard no sound.

Not a soul was in sight in this quiet corner. He bounded on to the bench to be nearer--if she should come. If she were there hiding in the shadows. This was maddening--unbearable. He would climb the bal.u.s.trade to see. Then out of the blackest gloom came a laugh of silver. A soft laugh that was almost a caress. And suddenly she crept close and leant down over the ivy.

"Paul," she whispered. "I have come, you see, to wish you--good-night!"

Paul stood up to his full height. He put out his arms to draw her to him, but she eluded him and darted aside.

He gave a great sigh of pain.

Slowly she came back and bent over and over of her own accord--so low that at last she was level with his face. And slowly her red lips melted into his young lips in a long, strange kiss.

Then, before Paul could grasp her, or murmur one pleading word, she was gone.

And again he found himself alone, intoxicated with emotion under the night sky studded with stars.

CHAPTER VI

Rain, rain, rain! That was not an agreeable sound to wake to when one had not had more than a few hours' sleep, and one's only hope of the day was to see one's lady again.

So Paul thought despairingly. What would happen? No lake, or mountain climb, was possible--but see her he must. After that kiss--that divine, enthralling, undreamed-of kiss. What did it mean? Did she love him? He loved her, that was certain. The poor feeble emotion he had experienced for Isabella was completely washed out and gone now.

He felt horribly ashamed of himself when he thought about it. His parents were perfectly right, of course; they had known best, and fortunately Isabella had not perhaps believed him, and was not a person of deep feeling anyway.

But the extreme discomfort of the thought of her made him toss in his bed. What ought he to do? Rush away from Lucerne? To what good? The die was cast, and in any case he was not bound to Isabella in any way. But at least he ought to write to her and tell her he had made a mistake. That was the only honest thing to do. A terrible duty, and he must brace himself up to accomplish it.

He breakfasted in his sitting-room, his thoughts scourging him the while, and afterwards, with a bulldog determination, he faced the writing-table and began.