High Noon | Page 7

fascinating to study than all the rest. She must be a Russian from her
colouring, and, besides, she wears those wonderful embroideries. And
her servants, too, talk some outlandish gibberish among themselves. Of
course she belongs to the nobility, you can see that, even in the way she
walks."
"Really, mother, while I'm a true enough American not to be dazzled
by the glamour of a coronet, there is something in a long line of
well-bred ancestry. You know the old saying, 'Blood will tell.' I've
woven quite a fairy story about those wonderful eyes of hers. She is the
princess in the fairy story whom some fine prince will find and wake
up with a kiss. I wonder--perhaps my Englishman--"
She paused, quite carried away by her own fancy.
"Ah! there she is--my fairy princess--now, down there!" and the girl
indicated a rustic seat beneath a spreading cedar some distance below

them. As Daisy chattered on, she and her mother had drawn close to the
edge of the terrace. And there in the gathering dusk, looking out over
the lake, sat the pale-faced lady with the dark hair and the glorious
eyes.
As the two Americans stood gazing down the declivity, a small boat cut
across their line of vision and came up to the slip with a sweep which
only the expert oarsman can achieve.
"The Englishman--Sir Paul!" exclaimed the girl. "You'll see him soon
coming up the path that passes close to the big cedar."
And even as she spoke, the figure that jumped from the skiff started up
the narrow trail. The lady, too, must have been watching him, for she
rose suddenly from her seat and quickly gained the terrace, which she
crossed immediately to enter the hotel.
"Why did she leave when she saw him coming?" the girl asked, quick
to divine the hidden impulse. "Why did she run away like that? I'd
rather have stayed and had a good look at him! I wonder if she doesn't
want him to see her. Now that I think about it, she never stays where he
can meet her."
"Come, child! Don't be absurd!" said Mrs. Livingstone, and locking her
arm within that of her daughter's, she drew gently away.
With lagging steps Paul climbed the hill. The natural quieting effect of
the day spent in tender cherishing of old-time memories had not been
dispelled by his recent violent exercise, and the rustic bench invited
him more than the bustling hotel and the prospect of a dreary dinner.
But he forced himself to his tub and evening clothes, and once more
dined alone. The fixed habits of a lifetime are not to be lightly set aside
for some passing whim.
That night would be Paul's last at Lucerne. The week had been one of
strain, and there had come over him a fatigue scarcely less intense than
he could have felt had he actually experienced anew the scenes he had
been living over in imagination. But with weariness had come a

resignation which at last seemed final--a renunciation of his dream-life.
Now must he put away forever the haunting memories that seemed
always outlined, however, dimly, on the tablets of his brain.
To-morrow he would be speeding on his way westward, to London and
duty. Can we blame Paul if he shrank a bit from defining the latter too
precisely.
He dined very late, and after an hour spent with his cigar, a newspaper,
and letters that demanded attention, he felt the oppression of the room
and stepped out into the night, where myriads of stars dotted the sky
with their bright points. On the bench beneath the great cedar, a little
distance down from the terrace, Paul seated himself to enjoy a final
cigar. The cool air put new life into him; he felt calmer--more at peace
with the world--than had been the case for many years.
All was settled now. He was sure of his ability to return to England, to
go straight to Isabella and tell her all. That she would marry him, he
had no doubt. Too much of the old fondness still persisted between
them for any other outcome to be possible. Indeed, he could see no
reason why they should not make each other contented.
Paul no longer used the word happy, even in his solitary thoughts.
Happiness, that priceless elusive treasure, can come only to a heart at
peace in the warm sunshine of love. Material things can make for
contentment, but ah! how uncertain is that will-o'-the-wisp happiness.
As he sat pondering over the future, which now lay before him more
definitely almost than he had dared to think, a faint sound caught his
ear--the merest stir as of something moving above him. The stairway
leading from the terrace to