High Noon | Page 2

golden woof of his
young happiness.
This year he had decided should be the last. Not that his devotion to his
beloved Queen had lessened--far from that--but the latent spirit of
action, so innate to true British blood was slowly reasserting itself. For
Paul romance might still remain, but as a thing now past. He was frank
with himself in this respect, and he would be frank with Isabella
Waring too.

One more visit he would pay to the scenes of his love-idyl, to the place
where his beloved Imperatorskoye had come into his life, there to
commune again with her in spirit, there to feel her regal presence, to
seek from her that final supreme consolation which his wounded heart
craved--this was Paul's quest. And then he would return to
England--and Isabella.
It was the consideration of this resolution which shut the flying scenery
from his gaze, which drew fine lines about the corners of his firm lips,
and set his face to such a look of dominant strength as made the high
spirited American girl muse thoughtfully and brought a touch of colour
to the face of the pseudo Countess which was not due to the artifice of
her maid.
Such men are masters of their own.
Paul Verdayne was not a man to shirk responsibilities. It is true, dark
days had come to him, when a crushing burden had well-nigh
smothered him, and a bullet to still his fevered brain had seemed far
sweeter to Paul than all else life might hold for him. But Paul was
strong and young. He learned his lesson well--that Time cures all and
that the scars of sorrow, though they form but slowly, still will heal
with the passing of the years.
Paul was still young and he had much to live for, as the world reckons.
He was rich (a thing not to be lightly held), one of the most popular M.
P.'s in England, and the possessor of a fine old name. It would be a
coward's part, surely, to spend the rest of his life in bemoaning the dead
past. He would take up the duties that lay near at hand, become the true
successor of his respected father, old Sir Charles, and delight the heart
of his fond mother, the Lady Henrietta, by marrying Isabella Waring,
the sweetheart of his boyhood days.
So Paul sat communing with himself as the train rushed noisily on, sat
and settled, as men will, the future which they know not of. Alas for
resolves! Alas for the Lady Henrietta! Alas for Isabella! For Paul, as for
all of us, the mutability of human affairs still existed. Were it not so,
this record never would have been written.

CHAPTER II
With much grinding of brakes and hiss of escaping steam, the express
at last stopped slowly in the little station and the door of Paul's
compartment was swung open by the officious guard with a "Lucerne,
your Lordship," which effectually aroused him from his reverie.
Paul quietly stepped out of the car, and waited with the air of one
among familiar scenes, while his man Baxter collected the luggage and
dexterously convoyed it through the hostile army of customs men to a
fiacre. In the midst of the bustle and confusion, as Paul stood there on
the platform, his straight manly form was the cynosure of all eyes. A
fond mamma with a marriageable daughter half unconsciously sighed
aloud at the thought of such a son-in-law. A pair of slender French
dandies outwardly scorned, but inwardly admired his athletic figure, so
visibly powerful, even in repose.
But all oblivious to the attention he was attracting, Paul waited with
passive patience for the survey of his luggage. For was not all this an
old, old story to him, a trifling disturbance on the path of his pilgrimage?
When one travels to travel, each station is an incident; not so to him
who journeys to an end.
But Paul was not destined to remain wholly uninterrupted. As the other
travellers descended from the carriage and formed a little knot upon the
platform, the Comtesse de Boistelle, now occupied with a betufted
poodle frisking at the end of a leash, strolled by him. As she passed
Paul she dropped a jewelled reticule, which he promptly recovered for
her, offering it with a grave face and a murmured "Permettez moi,
Madame."
The Comtesse gently breathed a thousand thanks, allowing her
carefully gloved hand to brush Paul's arm.
"Monsieur is wearied with the journey, perhaps?" she said in a low
voice. And her eyes added more than solicitude.
Paul did not deny it. Instead, he raised his green Alpine hat formally

and turned impassively to meet his man, who had by then stowed away
the boxes in the Waiting fiacre.