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Three Weeks

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<h2 id="id00991" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXIV</h2> The neighbours and his parents were astonished at the eloquence of Paul's speech at the great dinner given to the tenants next day. No one had guessed at his powers before, and the county papers, and indeed some London reporters, had predicted a splendid political future for this young orator. It had been quite a long speech, and contained sound arguments and common sense, and was expressed in language so lofty and refined that it sent ecstatic admiration through his mother's fond breast. And all the time Paul spoke he saw no sea of faces below him—only his soul's eyes were looking into those strange chameleon orbs of his lady. He said every word as if she had been there, and at the end it almost seemed she must have heard him, so soft a peace fell on his spirit. Yes, she would have been pleased with her lover, he knew, and that held large grains of consolation. And so these days passed in well-accomplished duty; and at last all the festivities were over, and he could rest. Captain Grigsby and his father had helped him whenever they could, and an eternal bond of friendship was cemented between the three. "By Jove, Charles! You ought to be thundering proud of that boy!" Captain Grigsby said the morning of his departure for Scotland on August 10. "He's come up to the scratch like a hero, and whatever the damage, the lady must have been well worth while to turn him out polished like that. Gad! Charles, I'd take a month's journey to see her myself." And Paul's father grunted with satisfaction as he said: "I told you so." Thus the summer days went by in the strengthening of Paul's character—trying always to live up to an ideal—trying ever to dominate his grief—but never trying to forget. By the autumn shooting time his health was quite restored, and except that he looked a year or so older there were no outward traces of the passing through that valley of the shadow, from whence he had escaped with just his life. But the three weeks of his lady's influence had changed the inner man beyond all recognition. His spirit was stamped with her nameless distinction, and all the vistas she had opened for him to the tree of knowledge he now followed up. No smallest incident of his day seemed unconnected with some thought or wish of hers—so that in truth she still guided and moulded him by the power of her great soul. But in spite of all these things, the weeks and months held hours of aching longing and increasing anxiety to know how she fared. If she should be ill. If their hope was coming true, then now she must be suffering, and suffering all alone. Sometimes the agony of the thought was more than Paul could bear, and took him off with Pike alone into the leafless woods which crowned a hill at the top of the park. And then he would pause, and look out at the view, and the dull November sky, a madness of agonising unrest torturing his heart. The one thing he felt glad of was the absence of his Uncle Hubert, who had been made Minister in a South American Republic, and would not return to England for more than a year. So there would be no temptation to question him, or perchance to hear one of his clever, evil jests which might contain some allusion to his lady. Lord Hubert Aldringham was fond of boasting of his royal acquaintances, and was of a mind that found "not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean." Now all Paul could do was to wait and hope. At least his Queen had his address. She could write to him, even though he could not write to her—and surely, surely, some news of her must come. Thus the winter arrived, and the hunting—hunting that he had been sure was what he liked best in all the world. And now it just served to pass the time and distract some hours from the anguishing ache by its physical pleasure. But in that, as in everything he did at this time, Paul tried to outshine his fellows, and gain one more laurel to lay at the feet of his Queen. Socially he was having an immense success. He began to be known as some one worth listening to by men, and women hung on his words. It was peculiarly delightful to find so young and beautiful a creature with all the knowledge and fascinating cachet of a man of the world. And then his complete indifference to them piqued and allured them still more. Always polite and chivalrous, but as aloof as a mountain top. Paul had no small vanity to be soothed by their worship into forgetting for one moment his Queen. So his shooting-visits passed, and his experience of life grew. Isabella had returned at Christmas, engaged to a High Church curate, and beaming with satisfaction and health. And it gave Paul, and indeed them both, pleasure to meet and talk for an hour. She was a good sort always, and if he marvelled to himself how he had even been even mildly attracted by her, he did not let it appear in his manner. But one thing jarred. "My goodness, Paul, how smart Pike's collar is!" Isabella had said. "Did you ever! You extravagant boy! It is good enough for a lady's bracelet. You had better give it to me! It will make the finest wedding gift I'll have!" But Paul had snatched Pike up, the blood burning in his cheeks, and had laughed awkwardly and turned the conversation. No one's fingers but his own were ever allowed to touch the sacred gold. About this time his mother began to have the idea he ought really to marry. His father had been thirty at the time of his wedding with herself, and she had always thought that was starting too late. Twenty-three was a good age, and a sweet, gentle wife of Paul's would be the joy of her declining years—to say nothing of several grandchildren. But when this matter was broached to him first, Paul laughed, and when it became a daily subject of conversation, he almost lost that quick temper of his, which was not quite yet under perfect control. "I tell you what it is, mother," he said, "if you tease me like this I shall go away on a voyage round the world!" So the Lady Henrietta subsided into pained silence, and sulked with her adored son for more than a day. "Paul is so unaccountably changed since his visit abroad," she said to her husband plaintively. "I sometimes wonder, Charles, if we really know all the people he met." And Sir Charles had replied, "Nonsense! Henrietta—the lad is a man now, and immensely improved; do leave him in peace." But when he was alone the father had smiled to himself—rather sadly—for he saw a good deal with his shrewd eyes, though he said no words of sympathy to his son. He knew that Paul was suffering still, perhaps as keenly as ever, and he honoured his determination to keep it all from view. So the old year died, and the new one came—and soon February would be here. Ah! with what passionate anxiety the end of that month was awaited by Paul, only his own heart knew. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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