Part 18 (2/2)
She rose and turned to the writing-table by the window, then drawing the blind aside a little she began rapidly to write. When she had finished, without reading the missive over, she went and placed it with a flat leather jewel-case on her pillow beside Paul. And soon she commenced a madness of farewells--all restrained and gentle for fear he should awake.
”My love, my love,” she wailed between her kisses, ”G.o.d keep you safe--though He may never bring you back to me.”
Then with a wild, strangled sob, she fled from the room.
CHAPTER XX
A hush was over everything when Paul first awoke--the hush of a hot, drowsy noontide.
He stretched out his arm to touch his loved one, as was his custom, to draw her near and envelop her with caresses and greeting--an instinct which came to him while yet half asleep.
But his arm met empty s.p.a.ce. What was this? He opened his eyes wide and sat up in bed. He was alone--where had she gone? He had slept so late, that was it. She was playing one of her sweet tricks upon him. Perhaps she was even hiding behind the curtain which covered the entrance to the side loggia where they were accustomed to breakfast. He would look and see. He rose quickly and lifted the heavy drapery. No--the loggia was untenanted, and breakfast was laid for one! That was the first chill--for one! Was she angry at his drowsiness? Good G.o.d! what could it mean? He staggered a little, and sat on the bed, clutching the fine sheet. And as he did so it disclosed the letter and the flat leather case, which had fallen from the pillow and become hidden in the clothes.
A deadly faintness came over Paul. For a few seconds he trembled so his shaking fingers refused to hold the paper. Then with a mighty effort he mastered himself, and tearing the envelope open began to read.
It was a wonderful letter. The last pa.s.sionate cry of her great loving heart. It pa.s.sed in review their glorious days in burning words--from the first moment of their meeting. And then, towards the end, ”My Paul,” she wrote, ”that first night you were my caprice, and afterwards my love, but now you are my life, and for this I must leave you, to save that life, sweet lover. Seek me not, heart of my heart. Believe me, I would not go if there were any other way. Fate is too strong for us, and I must bow my head. Were I to remain even another hour, all Dmitry's watching could not keep you safe. Darling, while I thought they menaced me alone, it only angered me, but now I know that you would pay the penalty, I can but go. If you follow me, it will mean death for us both. Oh! Paul, I implore you, by our great love, go into safety as soon as you can. You must leave Venice, and return straight to England, and your home. Darling--beloved--lover--if we never meet again in this sad world let this thought stay with you always, that I love you--heart and mind--body and soul--I am utterly and forever YOURS.”
As he read the last words the room became dark for Paul, and he fell back like a log on the bed, the paper fluttering to the floor from his nerveless fingers.
She was gone--and life seemed over for him.
Here, perhaps an hour later, Tompson found him still unconscious, and in terrified haste sent off for a doctor, and telegraphed to Sir Charles Verdayne:
”Come at once, TOMPSON.”
But ere his father could arrive on Sunday, Paul was lying 'twixt life and death, madly raving with brain fever.
And thus ended the three weeks of his episode.
CHAPTER XXI
Have any of you who read crept back to life from nearly beyond the grave?
Crept back to find it shorn of all that made it fair? After hours of delirium to awaken in great weakness to a sense of hideous anguish and loss--to the prospect of days of aching void and hopeless longing, to the hourly, momentary sting of remembrance of things vaster than death, more dear than life itself? If you have come through this valley of the shadow, then you can know what the first days of returning consciousness meant to Paul.
He never really questioned the finality of her decree, he _sensed_ it meant parting for ever. And yet, with that spring of eternal hope which animates all living souls, unbidden arguings and possibilities rose in his enfeebled brain, and deepened his unrest. Thus his progress towards convalescence was long and slow.
And all this time his father and Tompson had nursed him in the old Venetian palazzo with tenderest devotion.
The Italian servants had been left, paid up for a month, but the lady and her Russian retinue had vanished, leaving no trace.
Both Tompson and Sir Charles knew almost the whole story now from Paul's ravings, and neither spoke of it--except that Tompson supplied some links to complete Sir Charles' picture.
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