Part 3 (2/2)

”Ah! Belgrade!” sighed the girl. ”I wonder if I shall ever see it again? Long ago I used to be so fond of it, and we had so very many good friends. Dear old dad is so popular. Why, when we drove out the people in their brown homespun clothes used to run after the carriage and cheer `Petrovitch the Patriot,' as they call dad.”

”Of course you will return soon,” Charlie said. ”No doubt your father will be induced to enter the new Pas.h.i.+tch Cabinet.”

The girl shook her head dubiously.

”I know the King has several times asked him to return to Servia, but for some mysterious reason he has always declined.”

”But he is the most popular man in the country, and he cannot remain away much longer. It is his duty to return and a.s.sist in the Government.”

”Yes. But my mother died in Belgrade, you know, and I think that may be the reason he does not care to return,” replied the girl. ”Why are you going there?” she asked.

”On a mission for Statham--regarding a mining concession,” he answered.

”You know we have a lot of interests out there. Perhaps I shall be away only a week or two--perhaps six months.”

”Six months!” she cried in a blank voice. ”It is such a long, long time to look forward to.”

”I have no desire to leave you, my own darling,” he declared, looking straight into her beautiful face. ”But the mission is confidential, and for that reason I have received orders to go.”

”Your train leaves at nine,” she said, ”and it is already nearly seven-- only two hours! And those two remaining hours I cannot spend with you, for I must be in to dinner at seven. I must leave you in a moment,” she added, and the faint flush in her face died away.

Her voice ceased. He looked down musing, without replying. He was impressed by her utter loneliness--impressed, too, without knowing it by the time and place. The twilight of the short evening was gathering fast. A cold damp feeling was mingled with the silence of the dull, drab London street. It struck him that it felt like a grave.

A slight nervous trembling came over his well-beloved, and a weary little sigh escaped her lips.

That sigh of hers recalled him to a sense of her distress at his departure, and the face that met her troubled eyes was, in an instant, as full as ever of resolute hopefulness.

”What matters, my own, if I am away?” he asked with a smile. ”We love each other, and that is all-sufficient.”

All the pity of his strong, tender nature went forth to the lovely girl whom he loved with such strong pa.s.sionate devotion.

”What matter, indeed!” she cried, hoa.r.s.ely, tears springing to her eyes.

”Is it no matter that I see you, Charlie? Ah! you do not know how I count the hours when we shall meet again--how--how--” And unable to further restrain her emotion, she burst into tears.

He was silent. What, indeed, could he say?

Reflections, considerations, possibilities crowded in upon his mind, already disturbed and perplexed. The sweetness of the hours pa.s.sed in her society had increased insensibly ever since that well-remembered afternoon in Aix; the tones of her voice, the notes of those melodious old Servian songs she so often sang, her slightest action held a charm for him such as his earnest nature had never experienced before.

And they must part.

Within himself he doubted whether they would ever meet again. He had secret fears--fears of something that was in progress--something that might entirely change his life--something he held secret from her.

But he put the thought away. It was a horrible reflection--a qualm of conscience. What would she think of him if she actually knew the truth?

He bit his lip, and in resolution again took her white-gloved hand.

”No, darling,” he said, softly, in an earnest effort to cheer her. ”I will return very soon. Be brave, and remember that my every thought is of you always--of you, my love.”

”I know,” she sobbed. ”I know, Charlie, but--but I cannot really help it. Forgive me.”

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