Read Ebook: Three Weeks by Glyn Elinor

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Ebook has 1072 lines and 54225 words, and 22 pages

Then the speculation as to her nationality began. French? assuredly not. English? ridiculous! Equally so German. Italian? perhaps. Russian? possibly. Hungarian? probably.

"I wonder what she will have to pay for it all?" he thought to himself. "She will probably sign the bill, though, and I shan't see."

But when the lady had finished her nectarine and dipped her slender fingers in the rose-water she got up--she had not smoked, she could not be Russian then. Got up and walked towards the door, signing no bill, and paying no gold.

Paul stared as she passed him--rudely stared--he knew it afterwards and felt ashamed. However, the lady never so much as noticed him, nor did she raise her eyes, so that when she had finally disappeared he was still unaware of their colour or expression.

But what a figure she had! Sinuous, supple, rounded, and yet very slight.

"She must have the smallest possible bones," Paul said to himself, "because it looks all curvy and soft, and yet she is as slender as a gazelle."

She was tall, too, though not six feet--like Isabella!

Of course it would have been an easy matter to Paul to find out her name, and all about her. He would only have had to summon Monsieur Jacques, and ask any question he pleased. But for some unexplained reason he would not do this. Instead of which he scowled in front of him, and finished his fourth glass of port. Then his head swam a little, and he went outside into the night. The rain had stopped and the sky was full of stars scattered in its intense blue. It was warm, too, there, under the clipped trees, Paul hoped he wasn't drunk--such a beastly thing to do! And not even good port either.

He sat on a bench and smoked a cigar. A strange sense of loneliness came over him. It seemed as if he were far, far away from any one in the world he had ever known. A vague feeling of oppression and coming calamity passed through him, only he was really as yet too material and thoroughly, solidly English to entertain it, or any other subtle mental emotion for more than a minute. But he undoubtedly felt strange to-night; different from what he had ever done before. He would have said "weird" if he could have thought of the word. The woman and her sinuous, sensuous black shape filled the space of his mental vision. Black hair, black hat, black dress--and of course black eyes. Ah! if he could only know their colour really!

The damp bench where he sat was just under the ivy hanging from the balustrade of the small terrace belonging to the ground-floor suite at the end.

There was a silence, very few people passed, frightened no doubt by the recent rain. He seemed alone in the world.

The wine now began to fire his senses. Why should he remain alone? He was young and rich and--surely even in Lucerne there must be--. And then he felt a beast, and looked out on to the lake.

Suddenly his heart seemed to swell with some emotion, a faint scent of tuberoses filled the air--and from exactly above his head there came a gentle, tender sigh.

He started violently, and brusquely turned and looked up. Almost indistinguishable in the deep shadow he saw the woman's face. It seemed to emerge from a mist of black gauze. And looking down into his were a pair of eyes--a pair of eyes. For a moment Paul's heart felt as if it had stopped beating, so wonderful was their effect upon him. They seemed to draw him--draw something out of him--intoxicate him--paralyse him. And as he gazed up motionless the woman moved noiselessly back on to the terrace, and he saw nothing but the night sky studded with stars.

Had he been dreaming? Had she really bent over the ivy? Was he mad? Yes--or drunk, because now he had seen the eyes, and yet he did not know their colour! Were they black, or blue, or grey, or green? He did not know, he could not think--only they were eyes--eyes--eyes.

The letter to Isabella Waring remained unfinished that night.

Paul's head ached a good deal next morning and he was disinclined to rise. However, the sun blazed in at his windows, and a bird sang in a tree.

His temper was the temper of next day--sodden, and sullen, and ashamed. He even resented the sunshine.

But what a beautiful creature he looked, as later he stepped into a boat for a row on the lake! His mother, the Lady Henrietta, had truly reason to be proud of him. So tall and straight, and fair and strong. And at the risk of causing a second fit among some of the critics, I must add, he probably wore silk socks, and was "beautifully groomed," too, as all young Englishmen are of his class and age. And how supple his lithe body seemed as he bent over the oars, while the boat shot out into the blue water.

The mountains were really very jolly, he thought, and it was not too hot, and he was glad he had come out, even though he had eaten no breakfast and was feeling rather cheap still. Yes, very glad.

After he had advanced a few hundred yards he rested on his oars, and looked up at the hotel. Then wonder came back to him, where was she to-day--the lady with the eyes? Or had he dreamed it--and was there no lady at all?

It should not worry him anyway--so he rowed ahead, and ceased to speculate.

The first thing he did when he came in for lunch was to finish his letter to Isabella.

"P. S.--Monday," he added. "It is finer to-day, and I have had some exercise. The view isn't bad now the mist has gone. I shall do some climbing, I think. Take care of yourself, dear girl. Good-bye.

"Love from

"PAUL."

But the little table where she had sat the night before was unoccupied. There were the usual cloth and glass and silver, but no preparations for any specially expected guest upon it. Paul felt annoyed with himself because his heart sank. Had she gone? Or did she only dine in public? Perhaps she lunched in the sitting-room beyond the terrace, where he had seen her eyes the night before.

The food was really very good, and the sun shone, and Paul was young and hungry, so presently he forgot about the lady and enjoyed his meal.

The appearance of the B?rgenstock across the lake attracted him, as afterwards he smoked another cigar under the trees. He would hire an electric launch and go there and explore the paths. If only Pike were with him--or--Isabella!

This idea he put into execution.

What a thing was a funicular railway. How steep and unpleasant, but how quaint the tree-tops looked when one was up among them. Yes--Lucerne was a good deal jollier than Paris. And he roamed about among the trees, never noticing their beautiful colours. Presently he paused to rest. He was soothed--even peaceful. If he had Pike he could really be quite happy, he thought.

What was that rustle among the leaves above him? He looked up, and started then as violently almost as he had done the night before. Because there, peeping at him from the tender green of the young beeches, was the lady in black. She looked down upon him through the parted boughs, her black hat and long black veil making a sharp silhouette against the vivid verdure, her whole face in tender shadow and framed in the misty gauze.

Paul's heart beat violently. He felt a pulse in his throat--for a few seconds.

He knew he was gazing into her eyes, and he thought he knew they were green. They looked larger than he had imagined them to be. They were set so beautifully, too, just a suspicion of rise at the corners. And their expression was mocking and compelling--and--But she let go the branches and disappeared from view.

Paul had learnt a number of swear-words at Eton and Oxford. And he let the trees hear most of them then.

He could not get down himself until the train returned, and by that time where would she be? To go by the paths would take an eternity. This time circumstance had fairly done him.

Presently he sauntered back to the little hotel whose terrace commands the lake far below, and eagerly watching the craft upon it, he thought he caught sight of a black figure reclining in an electric launch which sped over the blue water.

Then he began to reason with himself. Why should the sight of this woman have caused him such violent emotion? Why? Women were jolly things that did not matter much--except Isabella. She mattered, of course, but somehow her mental picture came less readily to his mind than usual. The things he seemed to see most distinctly were her hands--her big red hands. And then he unconsciously drifted from all thought of her.

"She certainly looks younger in daylight," he said to himself. "Not more than thirty perhaps. And what strange hats with that shadow over her eyes. What is she doing here all alone? She must be somebody from the people in the hotel making such a fuss--and that servant--Then why alone?" He mused and mused.

To go back to the hotel would be the shortest way to find out, and so by the next descending train he left the B?rgenstock.

Then rage with himself seized him. Why had he not waited? For no possible reason could he go back now. And what a chance to look at her missed--and all thrown away.

He sat sullenly down in the hall, resisting the temptation to go into the beautiful night. At least he would see her on her way back. But he waited until nearly eleven, and she never appeared, and then the maddening thought came to him--she had probably passed to her rooms along the terrace outside, under the lime-tree.

He bounded up, and stalked into the starlight. He could see through the windows of the restaurant, and no one was there. Then he sat on the bench again, under the ivy--but all was darkness and silence; and thoroughly depressed, Paul at last went to bed.

Next day was so gloriously fine that youth and health sang within him. He was up and away quite early. Not a thought of this strange lady should cross his mind for the entire day, he determined as he ate his breakfast. And soon he started for the Rigi in a launch, taking the English papers with him. Intense joy, too! A letter from Isabella!

Such a nice letter. All about Pike and Moonlighter, and the other horses--and Isabella was going to stay with a friend at Blackheath, where she hoped to get better golf than at home--and Lady Henrietta had been gracious to her, and given her Paul's address, and there had been a "jolly big party" at Verdayne Place for Sunday, but none of his "pals." At least if there were, they were not in church, she added na?vely.

All this Paul read in his launch on the way to the Rigi, and for some unexplained reason the information seemed about things a long way off, and less thrilling than usual. He had a splendid climb, and when he got back to Lucerne in the evening he was thoroughly tired, and so hungry he flew down to his dinner.

It was nearly nine o'clock; at least if she came to-night he would be there to see her. But of course it did not matter if she came or not, he had conquered that ridiculous interest. He would hardly look until he reached his table. Yes, there she was, but dipping her white fingers in the rosewater at the very end of her repast.

And again, in spite of himself, a strange wild thrill ran through Paul, and he knew it was what he had been subconsciously hoping for all day--and oh, alas! it mattered exceedingly.

The lady never glanced at him. She swept from the room, her stately graceful movements delighting his eye. He could understand and appreciate movement--was he not accustomed to thoroughbreds, and able to judge of their action and line?

How blank the space seemed when she had gone--dull and unspeakably uninteresting. He became impatient with the slowness of the waiters, who had seemed to hurry unnecessarily the night before. But at last his meal ended, and he went out under the trees. The sky was so full of stars it hardly seemed dark. The air was soft, and in the distance a band played a plaintive valse tune.

There were numbers of people walking about, and the lights from the hotel windows lit up the scene. Only the ivy terrace was in shadow as he again sat down on the bench.

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