Three Weeks

by Elinor Glyn

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Of course as the days went by the sparkle of Paul's joy subsided. Aninfinite unrest took its place--a continual mad desire for furthernews. Supposing she were ill, his darling one? Many times a day he read herwords; the pencil writing was certainly feeble and shaky--supposing--But herefused to face any terrible picture. The letter had come on the 2d ofMarch; his son had been eleven days old then--two days and a half toVienna--that brought it to eight when the letter was posted--and fromwhence had it come there? If he allowed two days more, say--she must havewritten it only five or six days after the baby's birth.

  Paul knew very little about such things, though he understood vaguely thata woman might possibly be very ill even after then. But surely, if so, Annaor Dmitry would have told him on their own initiative. This thoughtcomforted him a little, but still anxiety--like a sleuth-hound--pursued hisevery moment. He would not leave home--London saw him not even for a day.Some word might come in his absence, some message or summons to go to her,and he would not chance being out of its reach. More than ever all theirthree weeks of happiness was lived over again--every word she had said hadsunk for ever in his memory. And away in his solitary walks, or his rideshome from hunting in the dusk of the afternoon, he let them echo in hisheart.

  But the desire to be near her was growing an obsession.

  Some days when a wild gallop had made his blood run, triumphant thoughtsof his son would come to him. How he should love to teach him to sit ahorse in days to come, to ride to hounds, and shoot, and be an Englishgentleman. Oh! why was she a Queen, his loved one, and far away--why nothere, and his wife, whom he could cover with devotion and honour? Surelythat would be enough for them both--a life of trust and love and sweetness;but even if it were not--there was the world to choose from, if only theywere together.

  The two--Paul and his father--were a silent pair for the most part, as theyjogged along the lanes on their way back from hunting.

  One afternoon, when this sense of parenthood was strong upon Paul, he wentin to tea in his mother's sitting-room. And as he leant upon themantelpiece, his tall, splendid figure in its scarlet coat outlined againstthe bright blaze, his eye took in--perhaps for the first time--the immensenumber of portraits of himself which decorated this apartment--himself inevery stage, from infantile days upward, through the toy rocking-horseperiod to the real dog companion--in Eton collars and Fourth of Junehats--in cricketing flannels and Oxford Bullingdon groups--and then not somany, until one taken last year. How young it looked and smiling! Therewas one particular miniature of him in the holy of holiest positions in thecentre of the writing-table--a real work of art, well painted on ivory. Itwas mounted in a frame of fine pearls, and engraved with the name and dateat the back:

  "Paul Verdayne--aged five years and three months."

  It was a full-length picture of him standing next a great chair, in a bluevelvet suit and a lace turn-over collar, while curls of brightest gold fellrippling to his neck--rather short bunchy curls which evidently would notbe repressed.

  "Was I ever like that, mother?" he said.

  And the Lady Henrietta, only too enchanted to expand upon this enthrallingsubject, launched forth on a full description.

  Like it! Of course! Only much more beautiful. No child had ever had suchgolden curls, or such eyes or eye-lashes! No child had ever, in fact, beenable to compare with him in any way, or ever would! The Lady Henrietta'sdelicate shell-tinted cheeks flushed rose with joy at the recollection.

  "Darling mother," said Paul, as he kissed her, "how you loved me. And howcold I have often been. Forgive me--"

  Then he was silent while she fondled him in peace, his thoughts turning asever to his lady. She, too, probably, would be foolish, and tender, andsweet over her son--and how his mother would love her grandchild. Oh! howcruel, how cruel was fate!

  Then he asked: "Mother, does it take women a long time to get well whenthey have children? Ladies, I mean, who are finely nurtured? Theygenerally get well, though, don't they--and it is quite simple--"

  And the Lady Henrietta blushed as she answered:

  "Oh! yes, quite simple--unless some complications occur. Of course there isalways a faint danger, but then it is so well worth it. What a strangething to ask, though, dear boy! Were you thinking of Cousin Agatha?"

  "Cousin Agatha!" said Paul vaguely, and then recollected himself. "Oh, yes,of course--how is she?"

  But when he went off to his room to change, his mother's words stayed withhim--"unless some complications occur"--and the thought opened a freshfield of anxious wonderment.

  At last it all seemed unbearable. A wild idea of rushing off to Vienna cameto him--to rush there on the clue of a postmark--but common sense put thisaside. It might be the means of just missing some message. No, he must bearthings and wait. This silence, perhaps, meant good news--and if by the endof April nothing came, then he should have to break his promise andinvestigate.

  About this time Captain Grigsby again came to stay with them. And the nextday, as he and his host smoked their pipes while they walked up and downthe sunny terrace, he took occasion to give forth this information:

  "I say, Charles--I have located her--have you?"

  "No! By Jove!" said Paul's father. "Hubert is away, you know, and I havejust let the thing slide--"

  "About the end of February did you notice the boy looking at all worried?"

  Sir Charles thought a moment.

  "Yes--I recollect--d--d worried and restless--and he is again now."

  "Ah! I thought so!" said Mark Grigsby, as though he could say a good dealmore.

  "Well, then--out with it, Grig," Sir Charles said impatiently.

  And Captain Grigsby proceeded in his own style to weave together a chain ofcoincidences which had struck him, until this final certainty. They were aclear set of arguments, and Paul's father was convinced, too.

  "You see, Tompson told you in the beginning she was Russian," CaptainGrigsby said after talking for some time, "and the rest was easy to findout. We're not here to judge the morals of the affair, Charles; you and Ican only be thundering glad your grandson will sit on that throne allright."

  He had read in one paper--he proceeded to say--that a most difficultpolitical situation had been avoided by the birth of this child, as therewas no possible heir at all, and immense complications would ensue upon thedeath of the present ruler--the scurrilous rag even gave a _resume_ of thisruler's dissolute life, and a broad hint that the child could in no case behis; but, as they pithily remarked, this added to the little prince'swelcome in Ministerial circles, where the lady was greatly beloved andrevered, and the King had only been put upon his tottering throne, and keptthere, by the fact of being her husband. The paper added, the King hadtaken the chief part in the rejoicings over the heir, so there was nothingto be said. There were hints also of his mad fits of debauchery anddrunkenness, and a suppressed tale of how in one of them he had strangled akeeper, and had often threatened the Queen's life. Her brother, however,was with her now, and would see Russian supremacy was not upset.

  "Husband seems a likely character to hobnob with, don't he, Charles? Nowonder she turned her eye on Paul, eh?" Mark Grigsby ended with.

  But Sir Charles answered not, his thoughts were full of his son.

  All the forces of nature and emotion seemed to be drawing him away frompeaceful England towards a hornets' nest, and he--his father--would bepowerless to prevent it.