Front matter (continued 2)

Left by herself on the bench, Mrs. Nugent watched this precipitate departure with considerable dismay. She had seen and known the Swedish Minister in many moods. Ironical, pensive, bubbling over with good spirits one day, melancholy and depressed the next, but, so far, she never remembered having been a witness to his anger. She gazed after him now with genuine consternation, as he paced the little path with his head thrown back, and his hands thrust well down into the pockets of his riding breeches. Her spirits sank as the minutes passed, and he finally disappeared from view. Eventually the sentiment of trepidation that had at first seized her changed to that of irritation and considerable annoyance. After all, she thought, she had answered him as gently as surely, in the circumstances, it was possible to reply, and the more she considered the question, the more did a feeling of extreme vexation and surprise overcome her at her refusal being received in this apparently intensely angry and rebellious spirit.

Women at best are but unreasonable creatures, and Mrs. Nugent was no exception to the rule, forgetting to make allowances for the necessary blow that such a prompt refusal must certainly inflict on a man of Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's proud and rather unyielding disposition. On his side he was fully aware of the many and great advantages of his offer, and of the sacrifices on his part that such a marriage would entail. It had by no means been fear of failure alone that had prevented him from suggesting a connection of a possibly too unbinding or temporary nature. Since his final determination to make this marriage, he had learnt that the great love he bore Pearl would in itself, independent of any other reason, be sufficient to cause him to reject the former idea with promptitude and distaste. He did not however, disguise from himself that, situated as she was, nine men out of ten would have hesitated before offering her their name. He himself had deliberated and paused before taking this step, but having once, with complete disregard of his future, proposed to give up all for her, he found it impossible to recover from the mortification that her abrupt rejection of his offer, and the refusal for one moment even to consider his proposal, had caused him.

Stanislas, greatly angered and deep in thought, strode on and on. It was only the fact of unexpectedly finding himself once more at the tea-house that roused him from his vexatious thoughts, recalling to him the fact of his hasty departure, and unceremonious desertion of Pearl.

He then and there retraced his steps, and found her where he had left her on the bench, with a heightened colour, and a look of decided reproach in her eyes. He was very pale as he lifted his hat to her.

"Pardon me for leaving you alone," he merely said. "Shall we return now. It is getting chilly."

Pearl rose without a word. She followed humbly, feeling somewhat like a naughty child in disgrace. It was not long before her pride rebelled against this sentiment, so unpleasantly novel to her, and though her voice trembled, and her throat felt rough and dry, she nerved herself to break the prolonged and awkward silence.

"I don't think you are treating me very well," she said rather defiantly. "You did me the honour to ask me a question, and I replied in the only way that seemed possible to me. I can only say I grieve if it was not the answer you appear evidently to have expected."

Monsieur de Güldenfeldt did not speak. He merely slowly raised his head, and with his searching eyes gave Pearl one long and steadfast look. This look had the unpleasant effect of causing Mrs. Nugent to sincerely wish she had bitten her tongue out sooner than have ventured to break the silence.

CHAPTER IV.

Deep Waters.

Stanislas fled from Tokyo. He felt as if he hated the place, as if he never wished to set foot in it again. The evening of the day that Pearl refused him he wrote to his Government requesting leave to return home, but he worked almost single-handed at his Legation, and he knew that it would be impossible to take his departure until someone had been sent out to relieve him, a circumstance which meant many months of weary waiting.

What might happen during those months he found himself wondering, as he read over the letter he had written so impetuously? A day, a week might alter the whole chain of events, and by the time his Government had given him permission to take advantage of his leave, making all arrangements to facilitate his departure, he knew that it was more than possible that the idea of throwing up his work and of leaving Japan would be the last desire prominent in his mind.

Even in moments of the greatest excitement or of distress, Stanislas--where the question of his work was in any way involved--rarely acted hastily or without looking at the question from all sides. Thus in the present case, though it would have been impossible for him to have explained the exact reason why, after weighty consideration, he ended by thrusting the hastily written letter into a drawer, where it reposed peacefully until destroyed many months later.

Not that at this moment De Güldenfeldt for one second contemplated asking Mrs. Nugent a second time to become his wife. No thought, indeed, was further from his mind. After much quiet deliberation, indeed considerable hesitation, he had brought himself to the point of making this offer, and greatly to his surprise, disappointment, and distress, he had been refused. He was deeply in love with Pearl, but it must be confessed the sentiment for the moment that had the greatest hold on the spirit of Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, swamping all other feelings,--even for the time being that of his love--was that of wounded pride, Stanislas was by no means perfect, his faults were many and manifold, and like all those who from their earliest youth have acted as their own masters--seldom having been crossed in either whims or desires--he was extra-ordinarily intolerant, even in small matters, of the slightest contradiction or hindrance to his wishes. But when it came to the point of renouncing what he most desired in life, not only for the moment, but he knew well for all futurity, Stanislas was consumed with what was far more than a merely temporary sentiment of annoyance and distress. A great astonishment, a permanent anger and resentment filled his whole being, and his one thought at the present moment was to fly from Pearl and all associations of her, striving his utmost to entirely banish from his mind the woman who had so strangely upset his equanimity, disarranging so completely his rather settled habits and whole system of life.

Thus it was, travelling by slow stages and passing his nights at clean and picturesque tea-houses sleeping on futon [4] and eating the food of the country, Stanislas, and the young interpreter of his Legation, Suzuki, his sole companion in his travels, one day found themselves at Sendai, from which place they took the train to Shiogama. There a sampan--the flat bottomed junk of the Japanese--was engaged, and for several hours Stanislas, stretched at the bottom of the boat, with hands clasped behind his head, and eyes gazing lazily up unto the unclouded sky above, glided in and out through the thousands of lovely islands of this archipelago, so full of mystery and of dreams. Weird and wonderful were those islands, bays, and promontories, in some cases beautiful and entrancing in their wealth of thick grown pines and rich and varied vegetation, and in others, almost uncanny in their bare, naked, volcanic rocks, worn into strange patterns and fantastic shapes by the inroads of the ever surging sea. Under the late afternoon sun, and across this lovely limpid sea of green, would fade far away in the distance vast and misty ranges of thickly wooded hills, while here and there, gleaming through the soft whiteness of the light, a great peak of purple would arise aloft like a beckoning finger, reaching far beyond into the fast flying clouds of the faintly shaded sky.

On reaching Matsushima (the "Island of the Pines") after this never-to-be-forgotten sail of some delicious hours, and on arriving at the tea-house perched on a rock high above the water, that was to be his shelter for the night, de Güldenfeldt, while the evening meal was being prepared under the supervision of Suzuki, leaned idly over the little barrier of the verandah. He leant and gazed wonderingly at the beautiful scene, till his whole soul was pervaded by the gentleness, the dreamy passionlessness, the immense repose of the solemn charm of the sight before him. The musically rippling water, the many thousand islands, the fading sun-set, with its great shafts of glowing colour shooting across the sky, and merging mysteriously into soft and subtle twilight--all had a peculiar beauty and character of their own. It seemed to him like nothing he had ever seen before. No old recollections, no old memories were stirred to life as his eyes wandered over the waters, and dwelt on the many thousand islands of every form and size, now growing shapeless and dim in the darkening shadows of the night.

And as he gazed thus, drinking in the beauty of the scene and thinking of nothing--not even for the moment of Pearl--and as the short twilight gradually faded and night fell, Stanislas was the witness of a strange and picturesque sight.

Thousands and thousands of dazzling lights were shimmering on the surface of the dark calm sea before him, each light growing gradually fainter and fainter, and gliding further and further away into the open. Then it was that de Güldenfeldt remembered that it was the sacred and yearly ceremony of the "Shoryobune," or the launching of the Ships of the Souls, when thousands of little skiffs and barks, each illuminated with a single lantern, are once a year set afloat upon the open sea by the simple fisher-folk. On this date the ocean is nought for the time being but one vast highway of the Dead, whose passing souls must cross the waters, be they rough or calm, to eventually reach the haven of their distant and Eternal Home.

Now gleaming on the crest of the wave, now disappearing beneath the waters, those fires of the Dead take their onward uncertain journey. Sad indeed, is the fate of the lost lamenting soul, whose little craft with its twinkling light is submerged and extinguished by the scudding spray of the sea, disappearing for ever from all human sight and ken. For that poor struggling spirit is no rest, nor eternal repose, forever and forever will it be an outcast and a wanderer, hovering on the shores of that Land in which Nirvâna is found, but fated never to dwell within the regions of its blessed calm and peace.

It is said that as these ghostly lights take their strange and onward journey across the sea, the distant murmur of many voices is heard like the mournful roar of the surf beating on the strand, the language uncomprehended and indistinguishable of those many thousand weary souls, struggling on towards their long prayed-for, long-expected haven of peace and holy contemplation.

And as de Güldenfeldt gazed out thus far before him, his eye became fixed upon one little glimmer, dancing up and down on the water, and a cry above the murmur of the many voices seemed to him to come from the direction of that light. Stanislas could not tear his eyes away from this distant gleam, nor shut his ears to the sound of that cry, so faint and weak, and yet so strangely dominant over all other sounds around him. And as he looked, fascinated and engrossed, the fancy seized him that it was even at the spectacle of his own striving weary soul he was gazing, and that the wail that proceeded from that flickering light, rising and falling across the waters, was the echo of the cry of desolation and despair that had filled and rent his heart, ever since the day he had parted from Pearl Nugent in anger and bitter disillusion. He leant further over the balcony, trying to pierce the gloom and to follow the wind-fraught vagaries of that one faint glimmering light. Now it tore swiftly along, now it rose high above the waves, seeming to challenge with its swift and triumphant haste the more backward competitors in this strenuous race, of which the distant goal was the stormy and open sea.

It disappeared for the space of an instant, and dreading that it was engulfed for ever by the waters, Stanislas' heart sank within him. Ah! no! there it was again, solitary and triumphant, shining like a colossal diamond, far, far away--as far as eye could see. Alone it was, reaching a great distance beyond the others, and de Güldenfeldt felt grieved for this flickering uncertain light, always solitary, always struggling, however much it was in advance, or appeared to have vanquished those who had first started with it in the race.

It was, therefore, with a certain glow of joy, a sentiment of excitement, which he made no effort to suppress, that he finally perceived another distant light, yet as luminous and as steady as the first, flying with all speed over the suddenly roughening ocean, every instant approaching nearer to the brilliant spark that for so long had remained triumphantly mistress of the seas. Stanislas, without hesitation, joyously decided in his own mind that this second light could be none other than the soul-light of Pearl, for as it gained on the distant gleam the faint piteous cry that had hitherto proceeded from the latter ceased, and the light stood still on the face of the waters, and Stanislas knew that his own expectant spirit was waiting for Pearl's soul to join it. Swifter and swifter it flew, nearer and nearer it came, gaining every moment on that other trembling light that was pausing on the crest of the wave to bear it company on that rough and onward journey. Stanislas felt assured that just one faint effort more, one short critical moment, would join in happy and eternal union these two distant lights. But as he gazed breathlessly, the light which he called Pearl's soul, for one brief second gleamed up high into the horizon, gave a faint wavering flicker, and the surface that an instant before was all aglow with its vaporous brilliancy, grew as dark as the inky night that so suddenly seemed to envelope all things, and the little spark, engulfed by the waters, vanished for ever from all human sight!

And there still remained his light, his soul, solitary and forlorn, drifting aimlessly on and on. Once again Stanislas caught the sound from far across the waters of that moaning cry, that piteous faint lament, the echo of the desolation in his own heart; and the wail rang in his ears till the light on the sea, growing smaller and smaller, and fainter and fainter, finally merged into the distant horizon, and was seen no more.

"I wonder what is coming to me," sighed de Güldenfeldt, as reluctantly stirring from the balcony, he sat himself down on the pile of cushions prepared for him on the tatami, [5] "I am as sentimental, as great a fool as any boy indulging in his first attack of calf-love. Yet--and yet--I wish to God Pearl's light had not gone out, but had succeeded in eventually reaching mine. It would somehow have seemed more reassuring, a better omen for the future, whereas now----"

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt passed a bad night. The tea-house, famous for its lovely and extensive view, but for little else, was by no means the haven of rest he had hoped for. The celebration of a Geisha feast in the next room, with all its accompaniments of cheerful voices, rippling laughter, and the doubtful charms of the music of the samisen, [6] destroyed through the earlier hours of the night all thoughts of repose. When at length the last convivial guest, after many O'yasumi nasai, [7] had finally taken his departure, Stanislas found to his cost that his futon were both hard and lumpy, and that the Japanese green mosquito net, perforated with holes, seemed expressly fabricated to admit scores of those wily and vicious insects, with which his tussles were many and necessarily totally unsuccessful. He tossed and turned, dozed for a few minutes, and in his uneasy dreams was haunted by the soul-lights. Now dancing on the waves, now taking weird shapes of grotesque birds of prey, or fish and animals of no known description, they seemed to imperiously beckon him to join them, or enveloping him in strange uncanny arms, they dragged his struggling form far beneath the waters. Finally he no longer could support in patience the discomfort of his room or these weird nightmares of an excited brain, and rising from his lowly couch and pushing open the amado, [8] he looked out into the night.

The moon was full, illuminating with its bright glory the calm sea from which all the lights had long since vanished, and from the surface of which the islands rose from out the water like great gaps blackened by mysterious and ever-moving shadows. On the right, partly hidden by its sacred groves,approached by the red torii [9] resting almost on the water's edge, stood bathed in the mystic light, the ancient and picturesque shrine. This lovely little shrine was entirely framed by one immense cedar, whose great branches, motionless in the silent night air, stretched far beyond, like dark angels guarding the consecrated ground. Not a living creature was to be seen, and with the exception of the hum of the night insects, all was as silent as the aged moss-grown tombstones on which the moonbeams fell in ghostly streaks of light.

This simple verse was the composition of the English mother he had adored, and the repetition of it, so appropriate to the sweet scene before Stanislas' eyes, tended greatly towards bestowing that repose which till now had eluded his weary yet restless mind.

But the beauty and peace and silence were not to last. A shadow fell across the surface of the moon, and a fitful and mysterious wind wailed from behind the hills. Suddenly, with no previous warning, every cur in every little hamlet from far and near commenced a discordant and incessant barking. Before Stanislas could ask himself what meant this unwelcomed disturbance of the calm night, a premonitory trembling of the wooden verandah on which he stood warned him that all the terrors of an earthquake were before him. There was no time to realise this disagreeable fact before another shock followed the first, more violent and more prolonged, then a third, in which the wood creaking, rose like the waves of the ocean from beneath his feet. Stanislas found himself clinging to the bamboo rails of the verandah, watching with a strange fascination the branches of the sacred cedar waving violently backwards and forwards as if shaken by the force of a tempest, and the red torii beyond, trembling in its balance. The shock continued, each second increasing the violence thereof, till, with a deafening roar, like the roar of the ocean, with one stupendous and prolonged crash, the frail building, sliding from its slight foundations, collapsed like a house of cards! Stanislas remembered no more until he found himself stretched on the ground outside all that now remained of the once picturesque tea-house. A few yards further and he would have been over the cliff. As it was, he was on his feet in a moment, feeling none the worse for his fall, which had been from no great height, and was broken by the heap of stones and rubbish on which he fell.

The house was a mass of ruins. Such indeed, as soon as his somewhat dazed condition allowed him to look around him, seemed to be the melancholy condition of most of the miniature matchbox habitations that three minutes before had stood edging the sea in all their simple and romantic beauty. The torii that he had admired so short a time ago bathed in the calm moonlight, now lay prone on the ground, while half the roof of the little shrine had vanished in a cloud of dust. Only remained the great and ancient cedar to compete against and triumphantly conquer many another revolution of angry nature. This noble tree had survived hundreds of years of earth oscillations and currents, tidal waves and earthquakes, volcanic agencies to which we are told Japan itself owes her very being. Doubtless to the same terrible and disastrous causes, perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps only in the far distant ages to come, will this beautiful fairyland owe her ultimate destruction.

Güldenfeldt's first thought in the chaos that followed was of his young interpreter Suzuki. He shouted his name aloud, but in the din and confusion and the chorus of wails and weepings over lost property--and, alas! in many cases, lost dear ones--his voice was unheard. He knew the boy had been sleeping in the room next to his own, but that little room was now with the rest of the building, heaped on the ground a mass of ruins. Calling on some of the fishermen who were standing by him stupefied by the scene of bitter desolation before them--he tore wildly at the débris of planks and paper and matting piled on the ground, feeling sure that he had but to persevere long enough to find him for whom he searched. In far too short a space of time in lifting a heavy beam of wood, the body of this dear companion of his travels was discovered beneath, motionless and dead. From the first indeed, a presentiment of coming evil had warned Stanislas he would thus find him. The moon, once more unclouded and brilliant, lit up the boy's good-looking face and slim young form. Still resting on his futon there was an expression of such complete peace and happiness on his countenance that for a moment it was indeed difficult not to consider as merely slumbering, this youth hurled thus suddenly into eternity.

De Güldenfeldt raised the burden, so light and delicate in his arms, and pushing away the dark hair from the brow he perceived a deep jagged cut on the temple. That wound in itself was enough to cause instant death. The blood had ceased to flow with the ceasing of the heart-throbs, and as his eyes lingered sadly on the inanimate form within his arm, the tears welled up into de Güldenfeldt's eyes. He had loved this young man born at the Legation, and educated at the French school, the worthy son of a noble Samurai, who himself after the Revolution and on the loss of his fortune, had in years gone-by, been only too grateful to accept the situation of Interpreter at the Swedish Legation. From the first day that Stanislas had held the post of Minister in Japan, this youth, unusually quick and intelligent, had proved not only his companion, but his right hand. He had returned the affection of his master with the fidelity and devotion of his race, had accompanied him in his many travels throughout the country, was an excellent interpreter, and had directed his household with the thoroughness and conscientiousness of an upright and honest man, devoted to his master's interests.

De Güldenfeldt felt that in losing this bright and intelligent companion of many lonely hours, he was losing half himself. "One shall be taken and the other left," he murmured, as unrestrained the tears fell. "Indeed the ways of Providence are strange. Why has this lad, so full of promise and with all before him, been the one taken, while I, a lonely man, with no hold on life, no ties, no inducements to keep me here--am the unfortunate one that is left?"

And the next day during the sad process of cremation, when, after three brief hours, all that was left of this charming companion of years was a handful of ashes and a few splinters of bone, Stanislas, with a feeling of intense loss and desolation, again asked himself that question. Why was he the one whom Providence had chosen to continue the strife?

"No one cares for me, no one wants me," he thought, as he sadly supervised the placing of the ashes in the urn.

And to this day those ashes repose, and have incense and flowers offered before them in the grounds of the great Temple of the Koya San.

CHAPTER V.

Home News.

While de Güldenfeldt was pursuing his travels, a prey to morbid thoughts increased by this tragic event which had touched him so nearly, and while he was trying to learn that hardest lesson in the world--the lesson to forget, or in his weaker moments, for man is but human after all, dreaming dreams and weaving fancies, dangerous and alluring, Pearl, the chief cause of his depression, yet the subject of those heavenly dreams and fancies, was pursuing the even tenour of her way in Tokyo.

Pearl likewise had passed through her moments of weakness and regret. There were times, indeed, when she arrived at the somewhat humiliating conclusion that, considering all things, there was not much to choose between her manner of acting and that of the foolish girl whom she had taken it upon herself so severely to lecture.

She and her young cousin were much in each other's society at this time, the mere fact of both being placed in fairly similar positions, helping, perhaps to strengthen the tie of kinship, and that of their mutual affection one for the other.

It was during one of their early morning rides that Mrs. Nugent told Amy of de Güldenfeldt's offer, of her rejection thereof, and of the Swedish Minister's consequent irritation and final disappearance from the centre of operations.

At this information confided to her, a mischievous gleam sparkled from Miss Mendovy's eyes.

"Really, my dear Pearl," she said, very fairly imitating her cousin's voice and manner, "I must speak seriously to you. How could you have been so foolish as to have treated Monsieur de Güldenfeldt as if he were a mere boy? I have no patience with you, Pearl. You forget that the Swedish Minister is a man in a thousand,--a delightful man, a clever man, and from a worldly point of view an excellent match, etc., etc., etc. Don't you think, my dear," she added, turning round in her saddle, and glancing at Pearl with a face brimming over with laughter, "don't you think that these, your own words remember, addressed no doubt perfectly justly to your erring but I assure you long-ago-repentant cousin, might apply most admirably in your own case? It is rather a pity you were so 'previous,' I think, wasting your breath on me, instead of reserving it for your own delinquencies."

"It seems to me," replied Pearl, as she gave a little flick to her mare, "that you in your eloquence, Miss Amy, are forgetting one vital difference in the two cases. Whereas you, by your own confession, are in love with Sir Ralph Nicholson, and what is more, have been in this blissful condition for ages, I have no feeling for Monsieur de Güldenfeldt but that of great liking and the very deepest admiration for his cleverness and wit. This rather alters the situation, don't you think, you extremely sarcastic and facetious young person?"

"Oh, love!" ejaculated Amy with uptilted nose, "pray who thinks nowadays of such an out-of-date sentiment as love? What is love, compared to the advantages of a profitable marriage? Besides, Pearl, if you are not in love with him, you ought to be. He's a dear man, and you have recklessly and deliberately thrown away an excellent chance. And for what? An idea, a mere antiquated worn-out idea. And that's a fact, so it is no use trying to make out the contrary."

"You are doubtless right, Amy, perfectly right," answered Pearl in an unusually humble voice, "I know I am never likely to get such a chance again. Considering my position, it was a stroke of luck I had no right to expect, and yet--and yet--My dear Amy, it comes to this, it's no use talking to a girl like you. You've never been married, so how can you in the least realize what marriage means? I know, to my cost, only too well what it entails. So is it to be wondered at that I hesitate before making a second venture, however advisable to your inexperienced eyes such a marriage may seem?"

They trotted on in silence for some minutes, then Amy replied somewhat dubiously,

"You are right, Pearl. Of course I can't in the least know the consequences, good or bad, of matrimony. What is more, as far as I can see, I am never likely to have the chance of finding out. For I am decided on one point--nobody but Ralph shall have the honour of calling me wife, an honour which, so far, that young man seems in no hurry whatsoever to burden himself with. It is ages and ages since he condescended to come near me. And when by chance, once in a blue moon, we do happen to meet, His Excellency as a rule is far too occupied with some other fascinating member of the fair sex to think it worth his while to hardly cast me a glance of recognition. Rather different from the old days, eh, Pearl?"

"You brought it on yourself, my dear cousin."

"I confess, Pearl, I have hitherto looked upon you as a fairly intelligent woman. Another lost illusion, I suppose. Pray, how does the fact of my having brought this state of things on myself in the least alter or improve matters? Bother the men! Don't let's talk any more about them. The world would certainly be far jollier if they didn't exist. I see," she added with a serio-comic twinkle in her eye, "there is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to pray that Sir Ralph's ultimate fate in the shape of a wife may be a shrew, the plague of his life, someone who will lead him a nice dance in fact. Then perhaps he may feel inclined to indulge in some moments of regret that he did not stick a little longer to dear, amiable, sweet-tempered Amy Mendovy. Come along, Pearl, let's have a canter, and for one brief moment forget that disagreeable appendage--man."

But Amy was not fated to be in luck that morning, for shortly afterwards a sharp turn in the road brought the two ladies face to face with that particular "appendage" who was evidently engrossing Miss Mendovy's thoughts. Ralph was accompanied by two extremely pretty girls, all three on horseback, and apparently, from their peals of happy laughter, in the highest of spirits and the greatest good humour with themselves and the world in general.

Amy Mendovy flushed crimson, and with a bow that included the whole party, she gave a cut to her pony, and trotted quickly on, while Pearl, calling out to one of the girls, "I hope you have had a nice ride this lovely morning, Eulalie," followed after her cousin.

"Why did you not stop, Amy?" she asked as she caught her up. "The de Bourvilles reined in their horses with the intention of having a chat. They looked so astonished and annoyed when you went tearing past them in that strange, erratic manner."

"If you find the society of those girls so fascinating, my dear, why did you pay any attention to my movements, and not stop yourself?" replied Amy sharply.

"I had to follow you. If I had not done so it would have made your behaviour appear still more markedly rude," answered Pearl quietly. "As it is, they may possibly attribute our tearing past them in that extraordinary manner, to some real necessity for haste."

"I really don't in the least care what they think. The opinions of the Mesdemoiselles de Bourville never have interested me, nor will they ever interest me in the very slightest degree. The only thing that distresses me somewhat is to see two unfortunate girls, neither of whom have the vaguest notion of sitting a horse, attempting to ride."

"Well, you see, they are merely beginners. No doubt as they go out now so often with Sir Ralph he will soon teach them to sit straight," replied Pearl rather maliciously. "They've got nice figures, and are both adorably pretty. I'm sure their habits are English made."

"Doubtless," said Amy, with a slight drawl, which she affected when she wished to appear bored, "but really their riding habits excite me as little as the owners themselves. Do let us talk of something more interesting, Pearl."

Pearl smiled quietly to herself as she thought, with a certain satisfaction, how quickly the remedy which she herself had prescribed was working on the all-unconscious patient. "I have never seen Amy in such a temper, or heard her use such an unpleasant tone towards other girls before," she thought. "Poor child! She's green with jealousy. No wonder! when in the old days there was never a question of Ralph riding with anyone but herself. Dear, wise Ralph! if only you continue to play your cards as well as you have started, there's no reason whatsoever, knowing my fair cousin as I do, but that you will be married to her whenever you choose to fix the day."

That same morning, on her return from her ride, Pearl found she was likely to have far more serious matters than Amy's affairs of the heart to occupy her mind.

The mail had come in, an event that ordinarily did not greatly excite Mrs. Nugent. Having shut herself off from all old associations, all former connections, she seldom, with the exception of an occasional communication from her banker or lawyer, received much of interest by the post, the pile of newspapers and magazines, despatched to her weekly, being her sole and only means of keeping in touch with the outer world.

But this morning, on entering her cosy little boudoir, one glance at the writing table showed, lying in a prominent place, a couple of letters, one from Mr. Hall and the other in a former well-known and altogether dreaded handwriting. No need to lift the letter from the table to recognize only too well the once familiar, but now almost forgotten writing of the husband whom she had divorced. On perceiving it she made an exclamation of dismay, for a moment hesitating whether she should not destroy unread this unexpected and most unwelcome missive. Nevertheless, though vexed and irritated, the sight of the letter aroused no keen feelings in her mind. Since she had freed herself from him, the writer himself had grown so completely indifferent--belonging so entirely to that black chapter of the past, which, until reopened by Nicholson, she had flattered herself was closed for ever--that she felt, whatever he might elect to write, whatever insults, whatever injuries might be addressed to her in this letter, no sentiment but that of a sort of dreary contempt, a partial and temporary irritation unworthy even of the name of anger, was now capable of being once more stirred to life.

Indifference to vituperation did not however, carry her so far as to swamp all natural feelings of curiosity, and when, after a few moments of deliberation, she lifted the letter by the corner, she examined the envelope with a certain interest and wonder. The letter was fully directed to her present name and address, a fact which, on consideration, caused an incipient fear, and certainly unbounded astonishment.

So he knew not only of her change of name, but of her whereabouts, by what occult means she did not wait to consider, but delaying no longer, Pearl hastily opened the epistle, and read the following contents:

"Dear Pearl,

"I do not for one moment flatter myself that it is likely you should take the smallest interest in the fate of the man who once called himself your husband. As, however, I am informed that surely--and I am personally convinced by no means slowly--my days are numbered, I am writing before the breath vanishes for ever from this poor suffering body, to make, entirely for my own satisfaction, a certain communication to you.

"I am leaving you--for reasons which it is hardly necessary for me to enumerate--the complete mistress of my fortune. For fear, however, that you should be deluded into the belief that this proceeding is an act of, what you might be pleased to consider reparation on my part, I wish before the end comes, to entirely disabuse your mind of that fallacy.

"I am a dying man, it is true, but a worn out carcass does not necessarily entail a clouded or impaired intelligence. My mind, believe me, is as clear as when you knew me, and I solemnly here announce on my death-bed a fact, which except in public you have heretofore never given me the chance of declaring, that in my marital relations, I was as deeply wronged, as you no doubt are perfectly justified in considering I wronged you.

"You obtained your divorce by the breadth of a hair, you will doubtless remember. The fact that after having achieved your ends no marriage with Martinworth took place, did not for one instant throw dust in my eyes, whatever may have been the effect on that individual himself, or on the many, who at that time, called themselves your friends. I repeat, that for many years I possessed the positive conviction that Martinworth was your lover. In no wise did this fact interfere with me or my plans. Indeed, the knowledge that you were agreeably occupied entirely suited my book, and under the circumstances I found it a natural and convenient arrangement for all parties concerned.

"If, my dear Pearl, you had only shown that cleverness which you had exhibited for so many years, and if instead of dragging me into the Divorce Court you had been satisfied to let well alone, we should have continued a comfortable ménage à trois till the end of the chapter. That chapter, as far as I am concerned, would soon have closed, and in three or four years' time you would have found yourself, while still fairly young and extremely handsome, playing the satisfactory and the justifiable rôle of the bereaved, but by no means inconsolable widow. That awkward impediment the husband, having been conveniently disposed of underground, no stumbling block would have stood in the way of legalizing your position, by a marriage at some fashionable church, to which interesting ceremony lustre would have been added by the presence, no doubt, of the smartest set in Town.

"But you were too hasty in your desire to cast off your shackles. Seeing, however, the precious little use you have made of your freedom, is it to be wondered at that my breath should have been taken away by such an exhibition of complete manque de savoir faire. By one, too, whom, when I gave myself the trouble to think about her at all, I certainly considered possessed that quality to perfection.

"What? I ask you, have you gained by this most ill-advised step, on the taking of which, if you had only consulted me, I should most certainly, for your own sake, have counselled you against? Have you achieved liberty of action? Certainly not. Before your divorce you were completely free. A firmer and less compromising stand in society? Hardly, you must allow, considering the many doubtful and unpleasant incidents of your life, that to shield my own reputation my counsel had to bring to light. Undisturbed union with your lover? Your own subsequent and most inexplicable behaviour forfeited for ever all chance of such a future.

"Now, in the place of gain, compare your losses. Exile from your native land. The loss of the protection of your husband's name. The loss of the constant companionship of an adoring lover, and while you were my wife, however much you might have thought fit to scorn that position, the loss of a tangible and by no means insignificant place in that society, which for over ten years had been to you as the very breath of your nostrils.

"Oh! poor, blind, benighted fool! I cannot but pity you, Pearl, my rage and spite having long ago exhausted themselves. It is to prove to you this truth, namely, that I have no bitterness, no rancour, that I am acting as I do, leaving you the complete controller of that fortune, which, from the fact of you having shared it for so many years, you well know is by no means inconsiderable. Do as you will with it. As you will see, it is yours without conditions. You in your turn can leave this wealth to whom you desire, my own few distant relatives having no claim whatsoever upon me.

"One word more before I close these lines.

"Once, being no longer master of my actions, I was so unfortunate as to strike you. It was principally on the fact of that blow that you obtained your divorce. I apologise to you for this deed. I can only add that, whatever the provocation, I should never have acted thus in my sober moments.

"And now, adieu. By the time you receive this I shall, in all probability be beneath the sod. No doubt you will experience a certain natural satisfaction in feeling assured that for the future you no longer can be troubled by

"Guy Norrywood."

Pearl stood for a long time with this letter clasped tightly in her hand, a prey to strangely mixed feelings. Though, during all the years they had spent together, Norrywood had evidently not considered it worth his while to express his opinion, she nevertheless had by no means been in ignorance of her husband's true sentiments towards her. Before the crash she in her turn, had scorned to confute or to argue this opinion, though if she had for a moment supposed that every questionable position, every compromising action on her part was to have been brought as evidence against her in her own suit, she certainly would have taken more pains in those early days, even to the man whom she despised so thoroughly, to have explained and proved her innocence. But neither she, nor Martinworth, nor her Counsel had for one moment contemplated such a step on Norrywood's part, and indeed at one time it was believed the case would proceed in its course undefended. Judge then of her astonishment when her husband appeared in Court armed with these many powerful, aye! deadly weapons against her. Too late then to explain or temporize, and Pearl in bitterness of spirit realised fully her egregious folly in having from the very commencement so completely scorned, so entirely despised her foe.

Bitter memories were aroused in Mrs. Nugent's breast by the perusal of this letter--memories and regrets and rage that long had remained dormant, so much so, that she asked herself whether after all, her philosophy was beginning to play her false. But Norrywood's unvarnished opinion of her, the complete cynicism of his plain speaking, the crude bluntness, brutality indeed, of his well weighed and deliberate conclusions touched her not at all. She had all along been aware of his opinion, and to some extent she could comprehend his having arrived at such an unflattering conclusion, and almost forgave him for it. She felt, however, a slight regret that he should have died unchanged in this belief, especially as on the whole the letter aroused her sympathies, and a vague feeling of pity in her breast. She read between the lines, and in spite of his refutation of the same, she knew that this will in her favour was an act of reparation--tardy amends for all he had made her suffer during his lifetime. The act, if not the words, confessed remorse. Such being the case, and with this barrier of the tomb between them, she felt that she could forgive him much. She had never for one instant contemplated the possibility of inheriting his money. She did not wish for it, and as she restored the letter to the envelope she deluded herself with the belief that no power on earth could force her to accept this undesired, this unexpected gift.

But there was still Mr. Hall's letter to be read. It was, she perceived, dated ten days later than that of her husband, and contained the contents of his will and the details of his miserable death, which had taken place suddenly a few days after the writing of this last long epistle.

"Your former husband," wrote Mr. Hall, "has for the last year been suffering from an extremely painful, and from the first, incurable disease. I was surprised that I, and not his own lawyer, should be called in to draw up his last will and testament, but his reasons for this act were later on, explained. I was touched by the great change I perceived in the poor sufferer's whole character and demeanour, and though nothing I could say would induce him to change his opinion on one point,--namely, as to your relations with Lord Martinworth,--the approach of Death, that great Softener, had melted the hitherto stony heart, and he spoke gently and kindly of you, and with a genuine regret for the constant sorrow of which he had been the cause. Mr. Norrywood's standard of morals, as we know to our cost, was at no times a high one. Presumably it was owing to this fact that he appeared to think the intimacy, which to the last he insisted existed between you and his lordship, was not otherwise than natural, and by no means blamable under the circumstances of his own acknowledged infidelity to you. But what seemed to astonish him beyond words was the fact of your having gone to the length of putting him into Court at all. He told me he wished, before he died, to express what he had so far never had an opportunity of doing, his opinion of your folly in taking this step. 'Naturally I had to defend myself,' he said, 'and the consequences have been my wife's social ruin.' He said much more on this point, and concluded by asking for your address for the purpose--he told me--of expressing his sentiments, and of informing you of his monetary intentions towards you.

"Considering it was the request of a dying man, I felt--in spite of your strict injunctions to the contrary, and consequently certain qualms of conscience on my part--that the only thing I could do in the circumstances was to accede to his request. I therefore wrote down for him your present name and address, and I can only trust, my dear young friend, that Mr. Norrywood, in this his last letter to you, confined himself to facts, inscribing nothing of a particularly unkind or painful nature.

"You will see by the enclosed copy of the will that Mr. Norrywood has left you a very wealthy woman. However distasteful the source may be from which the money springs, remember, my child, that much good can be done with this large fortune, of which you are left complete mistress, now and for the future. Knowing you as I do, I am convinced that your first impulse will be to refuse this wealth. But I also believe that on impartial and thoughtful consideration you will understand the immense folly of such a step. Indeed, a great portion of it having been settled on you at your marriage, must be yours in any case. So do not act hastily, but remember that in years to come there may be others besides yourself who can be benefited by these large sums.

"I should much like to know your intentions as to the future. Have you any thoughts of returning home? Your absence has been a long one. The persons that you dreaded are removed from your path--one by death and the other by marriage. It is therefore hardly necessary for me to point out that on inheriting this fortune your presence, for a short period at least in your native land, is highly desirable, I may even add, necessary."

Mr. Hall concluded his letter with various business details as to investments, etc., also with much fatherly and kind advice, which he considered it his duty to offer, but which no one knew better than he himself was more likely to be ignored than followed. Pearl, with puckered brow, was still standing by her writing table, pondering over these momentous and upsetting communications, when a 'ricksha rattled up to the door, and a moment later Mrs. Rawlinson was in the room.

"Dearest Rosina," exclaimed Pearl as she embraced her cousin, "what a wonderful woman you are! You have the blessèd knack of always appearing on the spot when most needed. I was wishing for you so much, and was just contemplating ordering the carriage and driving round to Azabu."

"What's the matter now?" enquired Mrs. Rawlinson, as she glanced at the two letters in Pearl's hand with a certain alarm in her brown eyes.

"I want you to read these letters brought by this morning's mail. No, this one first."

Rosina took Mr. Norrywood's letter handed to her, and walking to the window stood with her back to Mrs. Nugent. She read it straight through, and until she had replaced it in the envelope made no remark.

"Well, I suppose, judging from what he writes of his condition, the poor man must be dead by this time," and Rosina's cheerful voice as she turned round contrasted rather ludicrously with the figure de circonstance conjured up for the occasion.

"Yes," said Pearl quietly, "he is dead."

"It's no use humbugging, and pretending one is sorry when one isn't," retorted Mrs. Rawlinson. "To put it mildly, Pearl, that man's death is--is--what shall we say? Well, let us call it a merciful release. That's an expression that can hurt no one."

"He's done me no harm for some years, and time softens things," replied Pearl gently. "I think, too, he was perhaps sorry at the last."

"Hum! death-bed repentance," said Mrs. Rawlinson drily. "I've not much faith in that sort of thing myself. So easy to say you are sorry when circumstances over which you have no control make it impossible for you to have the chance of doing further harm. At any rate, I am glad to see that his repentance--if repentance it was--took a tangible form, and that in dying he had the decency to make certain amends for his disgraceful conduct towards you during his lifetime. You'll be a rich woman, Pearl. Let us trust, dear, that you will make better use of the money than he did."

"Yes," said Pearl, "I shall be rich, very rich, if I accept the money."

"If--what?" and Rosina stared.

"If I accept Mr. Norrywood's money," repeated Pearl. "I have by no means decided to do so, Rosina."

"Are you mad?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"My dear Pearl," and Mrs. Rawlinson settled herself squarely in an arm chair, "I shall not even give myself the trouble of demanding your reasons for this totally absurd, ridiculously quixotic hesitation on your part."

"Such being the case," retorted Pearl with a slight flush, "I shall likewise, greatly to my relief, be exempted from the trouble of informing you of them. Nevertheless I am, I confess, somewhat disappointed, for I flattered myself that you at least, Rosina, would have understood my motives--my--well--my scruples on this point."

"Well, then, I don't, and that's a fact," replied her cousin tersely. "The man, as all the world knows, treated you shamefully, made your life a misery from the very commencement. After putting up for years not only with neglect and infidelity, but with downright cruelty, you had the strength of mind to appeal to the law, and to divorce him. He is dying, and he writes you a letter. And even on his death-bed he cannot resist insulting you--accusing you of various disgraceful and altogether impossible actions. He has however, enough decency left in his composition to apologise for one of the many hundreds of his villainous acts, and, above all, he makes a certain reparation by leaving you his fortune. After all, my dear Pearl, a large portion of that fortune is already yours. He made excellent settlements, I remember, and you have been profiting by the interest of that sum ever since you left him. I really can't see the difference if, instead of a portion--the quarter, the half, whatever has hitherto been yours--you should for the future take over the whole of the fortune."

Pearl was silent. Rosina's calm unemotional manner of regarding matters always influenced her more impulsive and excitable nature. She felt there was much good sense and wisdom in what her cousin said.

"You seem to be of the same opinion as Mr. Hall," she said, after a minute. "He thinks I ought to keep the money. You will see what he says in this letter."

"He is a good friend to you, Pearl, that old lawyer," remarked Mrs. Rawlinson, as after carefully reading the letter, she returned it to Mrs. Nugent. "I can only impress on you to follow his and my advice. Above all, don't act in a hurry. What do you intend to do about going home?"

"Oh! spare me, Rosina! Why, I have only just received these letters. I haven't thought of making plans. But who knows? If my presence in England is really necessary for business purposes, I may possibly take a trip home after the summer. But my absence will be only temporary. I shall return. While you are here, Rosina dear, Japan will always be my home."

"Well! there might be worse places," and Mrs. Rawlinson pulled down her veil, preparatory to departure, "in spite of slight drawbacks in the way of distance, typhoons, earthquakes, etc. By the way, I wanted to telephone to you on Wednesday after that awful shock, but the wires were disarranged. Were you frightened? Did you suffer much loss?"

"Several of my best pieces of Imari china were smashed," replied Pearl, "and I picked up my big Delft vase in fear and trembling. But it was uninjured, mercifully. Stranger still, this heavy bronze clock was thrown off the mantelpiece, and was still going when I picked it up. Frightened? I should think I was frightened. I and all the Japanese servants rushed into the garden, and watched the house rocking backwards and forwards, expecting every moment to see it collapse."

"It was the worst earthquake we've had for years," added Rosina, "but it was nothing here compared to what it was in the north. I see by the newspapers whole villages were destroyed, and there has been immense loss of life. Amy will have told you how Tom retired as usual under the table. And did you hear how those two American globe-trotters, those dear old Miss Mordants, each clutching her own particular Chin dog, fled precipitately from the Grand Hotel, clad in little else than their stockings and chemises, and took refuge in a 'ricksha in the middle of the Bund? Thus airily clad, with the hood down and the apron up, they insisted on remaining for several hours. And then poor Nelly Richards, who was completely lost, and at last, after a long search, was found up a tree in the garden. I am told no power in heaven or earth would induce her to desert her tree until dragged down by main force by her infuriated parent."

"Yes, even earthquakes have their comical side. I heard of a certain mutual friend of ours who was indulging in a bath at that moment, and who fled into the street adorned tastefully but extremely simply in a high hat and a walking-stick," and Pearl laughed, but a second later her face became once more overclouded, and she sighed deeply.

"Now my dear," said Rosina, as she took her in her arms and kissed her affectionately, "be your own brave philosophical self, and don't worry about things. And as for your late husband, the last thing you could possibly manage to do is to mourn him, you know. Personally, I make no attempt to disguise how greatly relieved I am that a merciful Providence has thought fit to remove him from this troublesome world to another, and,--we'll hope,--a brighter sphere. While he was alive, in spite of your divorce, one could never feel quite sure that he might not take it into that evil head of his to annoy you in some way. Why! who knows? He might have turned up here in Tokyo!"

"There may be, for all you think, a far worse danger threatening me than the unexpected arrival of a divorced husband," murmured Pearl oracularly.

She was on the verge of confiding to Rosina the probable arrival in Japan of Lord Martinworth. She would have done so if it had not been that, since those few confidential conversations held on Pearl's first arrival three years ago, the name and even the existence of Martinworth had, by a sort of tacit consent and mutual understanding, been ignored by the two women in all later intercourse. Pearl was longing for Rosina's sympathy and advice in the difficulties she saw before her, but an incipient feeling of shyness, a kind of mauvaise honte, prevented her from venturing to reopen a subject which for so long had been closed between them. She therefore held her peace.

"After all," she thought, as she seated herself at her writing table after Mrs. Rawlinson's departure, "it may simply be a mare's nest of Sir Ralph's. Dick may never come in the end. A thousand incidents may occur to cause him to change his mind. And even if he and his wife do come to Japan, it is just as likely we shall not meet. What scores of globe-trotters visit this country whom I never see. I can easily abstain for the next two or three months from accepting invitations to the English Legation, the one place where we are likely to run across each other. Yes, after all, I am glad I said nothing to Rosina."

And yet in spite of all her sophistries, deep down in her heart of hearts, Pearl never doubted for a moment but that it was ordained by fate that Dick Martinworth should visit Japan, and that once again, whether for weal or for woe she knew not, their paths in life should cross.

Mr. Hall's and Rosina's arguments combined carried weight, and the next mail conveyed a letter from Mrs. Nugent to the former, in which no mention was made of renouncing the wealth left her. Indeed, enclosed with the letter was the rough draft of a will, by which, with the exception of a very substantial legacy to Mrs. Rawlinson, and another to the old lawyer himself, the whole of Pearl's vast fortune was left unconditionally to her young cousin, Miss Amy Mendovy.

CHAPTER VI.

A Woman's Womanliness.

The Imperial Cherry garden party was fixed that year for the 21st of April, the day proving one of the most perfect of a perfect Japanese spring.

Pearl had been prevented from attending both the spring parties that had taken place since her arrival. Therefore, though suffering from a certain depression of spirits which, in spite of her efforts to the contrary, possessed her at times, she found herself looking forward with considerable pleasure to the coming event.

As a member of the Rawlinson family she had a right to an invitation. She accompanied her cousins, and as they drove towards the Hama-Goten Palace, Mrs. Rawlinson's critical eyes rested admiringly on Pearl's beautiful face, and on the almost equal loveliness of her young niece seated opposite to her. Her heart swelled with natural pride as she complacently smoothed out the creases of the purple shot silk that in various forms and shapes had graced many an Imperial garden party.

"There's not the slightest doubt," she ejaculated, "but that my niece and my cousin will be two of the prettiest and best dressed women at the party to-day. You are both of you, my dears, looking perfectly charming. Don't you agree with me, Tom? Come now, say something, you tiresome person. Pay your relatives a compliment for once in a way."

Mr. Rawlinson opened his lazy eyes with somewhat of an effort.

"Both Pearl and Amy are quite vain enough of their looks without any compliments from me," he grunted. "The only thing unusual that I observe about them to-day is that the things they are wearing on their heads look, if anything, a shade more absurd and grotesque than they do even on ordinary occasions. My dear Rosina, I do wish you would leave me alone, and make the proper use of your parasol, instead of employing it for the sole purpose of poking me in the ribs. It is bad enough to be dragged to this infernal garden-party, without being massacred before I get there."

This last remark was accompanied with a twinkle in the very kindly eyes. Tom Rawlinson was somewhat of a rough diamond, and he affected a certain gruffness both in speech and manner. His bark, however, was well known for being considerably worse than his bite, and many there were who could vouch for his open-handedness in their moments of distress and need, his ever-ready helpful generosity, and above all, that priceless treasure in this unfeeling world--a warm heart.

"Now don't call the garden-party names, my dear, just because you would prefer to be wasting this beautiful day in that stupid, stuffy office of yours. And, Amy, don't pay any attention to what your uncle says. Your hat is very pretty. I am sure it ought to be, as nothing was considered good enough for your ladyship but a fabrication from Paris. By the bye, Pearl, do you know anything about Sir Ralph Nicholson? Is he still here? He never comes our way now. What's the matter with him? I have seen him once since his return, and he appeared considerably changed from the genial, pleasant fellow that I remember him."

Both Pearl and Amy reddened at Mrs. Rawlinson's questions. Neither conscience was entirely free from guilt.

"Yes," answered the former hesitatingly, "he is still here. He came to see me yesterday, and said that he would be at the party to-day. But here we are," she added, as with a certain relief she saw the entrance to the Palace gardens.

"Oh, Pearl, isn't it lovely?" exclaimed Amy. "I never saw the cherry trees so beautiful as they are this year."

They walked through the picturesque grounds, planted with the world-famed cherry tree, heavy with its fragrant mass of blossom. Interspersed was the graceful momiji, or spring maple, clothed in its luxurious mantle of brilliant red, forming with the dark foliage of the lofty pines, and the varied greens of rare and ancient trees in all their rich and perfect beauty, an enchanting contrast to the cloudless azure sky above. Pearl for a moment, in her admiration of these beauties of nature, perfected by the cunning art of man, forgot to be anxious and unhappy. Her sweet face was no longer grave, and her eyes shone, as, giving herself up to the enjoyment of the hour, she experienced the charm of gazing at a landscape glorified at that moment by glowing, brilliant sunshine, and scented by the delicate odour of a myriad faintly-tinted, profusely clustering blooms.

Her eyes revelled in the unrivalled beauty of these lovely grounds, and only when she arrived at the waiting place beneath the ancient and wide-spreading trees, and was quickly surrounded and greeted by her many friends, did she realise that she was there not merely to admire, but, in her turn, to be equally admired.

She was in an animated conversation with the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the Belgian and Spanish Chefs de Mission, when Amy came up to her.

"Fancy, Pearl," she exclaimed, "Baron de Pennett has just told me that Monsieur de Güldenfeldt is still away at Sendai and Hakodate, and all sorts of out-of-the-way places. You are guilty of keeping him away like this," she added in a whisper. "He loves these functions as a rule. But no doubt he has forgotten all about you by this time. Men are strange animals. Talk about the fickleness and changeableness of women indeed! Just look at the pronounced way Sir Ralph is flirting with that strong-minded looking female in magenta. Not that I care a bit, you know. Though I can't say I particularly admire his taste, do you?" And Amy's dark orbs flashed disdainfully.

Pearl let her eyes travel in the direction indicated, and, as she looked, a puzzled expression came into them. "I seem to know that face," she said musingly. "Where can I have seen it before?"

She was still pondering, when her thoughts were interrupted by a man's voice behind her enquiring, in a strong foreign accent, "Madame Nugent, may I be allowed to have the honour of presenting an old friend of mine to you?" and turning, Pearl with no previous warning of the ordeal before her, met Lord Martinworth face to face.

The meeting was so unexpected,--for she had gathered from Sir Ralph that it would still be some weeks before the Martinworth's arrival,--that Pearl found herself murmuring commonplaces, and mechanically bowing, as she would have murmured and bowed to a complete stranger. Later on she realised how dazed, how completely lost she had been at the moment. It was only on perceiving the deathly pallor of the face before her that she remembered that she was in public, that a thousand eyes were upon her, and with a supreme effort she partially succeeded in recovering her presence of mind.

Lord Martinworth had been standing conversing with Count Carlitti, a member of one of the Foreign Legations and a former acquaintance whom he had unearthed in Tokyo, when the latter caught sight of Pearl's tall figure and straight back, clad in a perfectly cut gown. He had already announced himself as one of her many admirers, though, having only lately arrived in Japan, he was unacquainted as yet with the gossip of his new post. Always talking himself, and never giving another a chance to put in a word, he was so far, in ignorance of Mrs. Nugent's history. He had heard vaguely that she was separated from her husband, a fact which he considered much in her favour, for in the opinion of this vivacious gentleman every pretty woman profited much, certainly as far as he personally was concerned, in being placed in a position more or less irregular or equivocal. At any rate, if unfortunately a husband did happen to exist, the more such an inconvenient appendage remained in the background, the greater approval was the lady of the hour likely to find in Count Carlitti's soft brown eyes.

Those eyes were ever on the look out for a pretty face or a rounded bust. His taste in female beauty was considered, certainly by himself if by no one else, indisputable. So when at the Club he had once given out that there was no doubt whatsoever but that Mrs. Nugent was la plus belle femme de Tokyo, no one troubled, even if they disagreed, to contradict one who counted himself such an experienced judge of the correct and classic lines of feminine loveliness.

"I must, mon ami," he said to Martinworth, "present you to une beauté--mais une beauté incomparable! Madame Nugent is English. You see that beautiful, straight back, and leetle head poised so haughtily? Ah, I perceive you admire! But wait, mon ami, till you see her face. And when you will have seen her face, wait a leetle longer till you have seen her en robe de bal! Quelles epaules mon cher, ah! quelles epaules! Then tell me if we do not possess a gem in ce triste Tokyo."

The introduction promptly followed, and shortly afterwards Count Carlitti was heard relating that la parfaite beauté de cette Madame Nugent had made such an impression on ce brave Martinworth that he had actually trembled, and turned ashen from the violence of his emotions.

"My triumph is complete," he was saying to Tom Spence, a junior member of the English Legation. "C'etait le coup de foudre!"

"Coup de foudre, by Jove! I should just think it must have been," exclaimed Spence. "Why, my dear fellow, Martinworth is the very man with whom Mrs. Nugent (that's not her real name, you know) was mixed up with in that divorce-suit two or three years ago. She came out here, they say, to get rid of him. And now you go and introduce them to each other as if they had never met before! Ha, ha, ha! upon my word, that's the best joke, the rummest situation I have ever heard of!"

"Mon Dieu," exclaimed Carlitti, with a shrug of his shoulders, "if women change their names, how is it possible to know the right--what do you call it--co-respondents--that belong to them? Mais sapristi! quelle guigne!"

"What is the matter, Count?" asked Lady Thomson, who, with her husband the English Minister, at that moment joined the two young men. "You look quite upset. An unusual state of things for you."

"Carlitti has just been distinguishing himself by introducing Lord Martinworth to Mrs. Nugent," explained the amused Spence. "He evidently wished for a sensation."

The British Minister was a very dignified person, and no one realised better than His Excellency himself that he was assisting in a prominent position at an important Court function. At his Secretary's words however, he screwed up his mouth into the form of a button, and a sound very like a whistle issued from his lips.

"My dear Carlitti, what a terrible situation! You mean to say you didn't know about the divorce, and all the rest of it?"

"Mais naturellement, Monsieur le Ministre, je n'en savais rien. I desired to make a pleasure to mon ami Martinworth, for he knows himself well en beauté de femme. And I was assured that he would admire la belle Madame Nugent. Aprés tout j'avais raison, je connais bien son gôut."

"Yes! you are quite right, Count," murmured the English wife of one of the German Secretaries, equally remarkable for her extreme prettiness, her sharp tongue, and her very many indiscretions, "Lord Martinworth certainly knows something about the good points of le beau sexe. As for Mrs. Nugent, he has had in her case, I am told, many years of leisure in London to study this particular example. Well, now he can re-commence, and can still further improve himself in what you dear, foolish men tell us is an absorbing and inexhaustible occupation,--the study of the female heart. Dear Mrs. Nugent's heart must be so very, very interesting. It is a pity that, so far, this boring, dull Tokyo has never provided her with an adorer, to help to solve its mysteries."

"Don't, I pray you, waste your pity where it is not required, my dear little Countess," laughed Lady Thomson. "Mrs. Nugent could have had, I feel assured, as many adorers as she desired. But you know as well as I do, that in spite of her somewhat difficult position she does not lay herself out for admiration and that sort of thing. She is certainly not a bit of a flirt. By the bye," she added sotto voce to her husband, "do you think I ought to say anything to her about that horrid man's death, and the fortune? Or shall I ignore the whole subject? What do you think about it?"

"By all means hold your tongue," replied the cautious diplomatist. "To refer to the fellow's death would be in the worst possible taste. Why, I see she doesn't even wear mourning, and quite right, too. It would be the height of hypocrisy. Come along, my dear. Collect the wives of my secretaries and those other ladies whom it is your duty to introduce to the Empress, for it will soon be our turn to be received in audience. We must take our place."

For the rest of that afternoon Count Carlitti retired into the background, and this usually volatile gentleman was extremely silent and considerably suppressed. Allowing for a certain amount of exaggeration, the description he gave Tom Spence of Lord Martinworth's demeanour at the moment of introduction was far from being incorrect. If, instead of bounding away after someone else, Carlitti had remained a little longer on the spot, his surprise would have been greatly increased by hearing the one word, "Pearl," issuing in deep, astounded tones from the man's lips, and by witnessing the intense look of joy that, after the first shock of amazement, illumined the handsome but somewhat stern features. To show emotion at an unexpected meeting, neither words nor violent outbursts of excitement are necessary. Lord Martinworth and Pearl Nugent met, and had at one glance, recognised each other. She had let her trembling hand lie in his for a moment, while that one look, that one word, had passed between them. She could not have spoken if her life had depended on the opening of her lips, and she felt it indeed a cause of thankfulness when the Court Chamberlains chose that moment to divide the crowd, forming it into two lines facing each other, and when in the necessary confusion, Martinworth was separated from her side.

The Corps Diplomatique took up their stand in line, by order of precedence, the rest of the crowd placing themselves beyond and behind, where they could obtain the best view. The military bands repeated one after the other, the very solemn and impressive National Anthem, while their Imperial Majesties, accompanied by the Princes and Princesses of the Blood and all the Court, walked slowly by between the two lines of their respectful subjects, and that of the Corps Diplomatique, acknowledging graciously the deferential salutations of this large gathering of people. Immediately on the passing of the Court, the Corps Diplomatique took their place in the procession. The crowds of guests followed, and Pearl found herself leaning heavily on Nicholson's arm, walking, in a sort of trance across the picturesque bridges, and along the lovely verdure-shaded paths.

Ralph had been an anxious and interested spectator of the meeting between his two friends. He was exchanging banalities with Lady Martinworth--the recollection of whose face had proved so great a puzzle to Pearl--when he had observed the greeting, and his kind heart had beaten sympathetically at what he knew must indeed be a terrible ordeal to both.

He witnessed Pearl's sudden dismay, the dazed and frightened look, and the nervous clutch of the handle of her parasol. Unceremoniously deserting his companion, he made his way towards Mrs. Nugent, and when everyone started to follow in the procession he without a word, simply drew her arm through his, holding her up through all that long and silent promenade.

When the Imperial party at length arrived at the marquee prepared for them, and the crowd was waiting expectantly on the turf outside, Ralph succeeded in obtaining a chair for his companion. Pearl by this time had regained a certain amount of control, and was so far composed that she could watch with interest their Imperial Majesties receiving the members of the Corps Diplomatique, and accepting the various presentations that are made to them on these occasions.

While this ceremony was still proceeding, Amy Mendovy occupied with her own affairs, and all unconscious of the event that had just taken place, came up to her cousin.

"You lucky woman," she said, "to have got a chair. I am simply dead with fatigue. But, Pearl," she added, struck with her cousin's pallor and gazing at her with anxiety, "how terribly pale you look. Are you not well, dear?"

"Mrs. Nugent felt the sun a little. I have persuaded her to sit down," replied Nicholson, who with open parasol was still standing guard over Pearl.

Amy raised her eyebrows, and instead of glancing at him gazed somewhat superciliously down her straight nose. She was feeling deeply offended with Ralph. He had not approached her the whole of that day, and--as she had confessed to Pearl--had indeed scarcely honoured her with his society, at home or abroad, since the memorable piano incident.

Ralph Nicholson was following strictly to the letter Pearl's advice, and was feeling extremely pleased with himself in consequence.

"After all, what clever creatures women are," he thought. "Now, unless it had been put into my dull head, I should never have dreamt of this very easy plan of getting round the little witch. I should simply either have cut it, or else like an idiot have rushed off and proposed again. Either of which proceedings would, according to Mrs. Nugent, have proved fatal to my chances. Now I see My Lady is just wild with me. She won't even look at me. She saw me at work though, as I intended she should do, on that queer fish, Lady Martinworth, who, by the bye, is not half a bad sort and capital company to boot. Tant mieux, Miss Mendovy. Your punishment will last considerably longer, I can tell you!"

Thus thought Ralph, as he stood at the back of Pearl's chair, complacently twirling his moustache, and furtively watching the lady of his dreams.

He found her looking more charming, more seductive than ever to-day, in her pretty gown and extremely becoming hat. Her dark eyes were flashing, the rich colour in her cheeks was coming and going with suppressed excitement, as completely ignoring Nicholson's presence, she bent down and wrapped a lace scarf around Pearl's shoulders.

"I think," said Sir Ralph, this time addressing himself to Pearl, "if you will excuse me, Mrs Nugent, as you have Miss Mendovy with you now, and as I see many of your acquaintances making their way towards you, I will just go and give Lady Martinworth a look. I see her casting signals of distress. She knows no one here in all this crowd, you know. And she is awfully nice."

So with a grin, and a parting glance at the back of Amy's dark head, off he went.

Pearl watched him go. Then she looked at Amy, who had turned, with apparently great animation, to address one of her numerous admirers hard by.

"I hope," she thought, "he won't over-act it. Men can never do things by halves. And of course, two can play at that game."

The truth of which remark Miss Mendovy was determined to prove. For, during the rest of the afternoon she succeeded in attaching to her charming person a by no means unworthy suitor, a certain good-looking Secretary of Legation, who long had been known to sigh hopelessly for her hand.

Pearl never quite recalled how she got through the rest of the ceremony. Afterwards she remembered vaguely catching a somewhat distant view of their Imperial Majesties seated at a table within the tent, discussing their repast in solitary grandeur. Near them were placed the Imperial Princes and Princesses, and beyond were little tables at which were seated the Ministers of State, and the members of the Corps Diplomatique with their wives and families. She had a dim recollection of someone forcing her to swallow a fragment of paté de foie gras and a glass of champagne, and she once remembered raising her eyes and finding those of Lady Martinworth fixed with a look of mocking enquiry and scrutiny upon her face.

This expression on Lady Martinworth's countenance was an additional shock to the many that Pearl was fated to experience that afternoon. Fortunately shortly after this incident, the Imperial party broke up, thereby allowing the guests the liberty to take their departure, or the long strain on Pearl's nerves, and the dread that Martinworth would again approach her, would inevitably have culminated in a breakdown.

As it was, her first action on reaching the shelter of her home was a characteristic one of her sex. She shut herself into her drawing room, and walking straight up to the glass over the mantelpiece, she gazed at herself for fully two minutes. In spite of the pallor of her cheeks this close examination apparently did not prove otherwise than satisfactory, for there was a slight smile about the lips as she drew the long pins from her hat, and laid her head back on the pillows of the sofa.

She was anxious to collect her thoughts, and if possible, to devise some plan for the immediate future. Whether that plan would ever have been formed it is difficult to say. As it was, her cogitations were speedily interrupted by the simple fact of a violent ring at the door bell.

Pearl was on her feet in an instant, and her hand was pressed against her heart to still its beating.

Who could it be? Was it?---- Yes, it must be Martinworth, who had probably ascertained without difficulty her whereabouts, and had lost no time in following her.

She experienced a strange sensation--a mixture of disappointment and relief when she realized it was not Martinworth's voice, but a woman's, that she heard in the hall.

The next moment Lady Martinworth entered the room.

She made a considerable noise as she strode with long steps toward Pearl, who was standing erect, with a slight look of defiance in her wide-open eyes.

"How do you do, Mrs. Norrywood," she exclaimed, holding out a large hand. "I saw you at the garden party, easily found out where you lived, and thought it best to come on here without delay, to have a necessary yarn with you. No objection, I suppose, to my bearding you in your den like this?" she added, with a broad, decidedly good-natured smile.

Pearl drew herself up, and threw her head back in a manner peculiar to herself. She felt completely mistress of her actions, quite ready for the fray, as she answered calmly:

"Before proceeding further in our interview, Lady Martinworth," the name stuck in her throat, "I think it best that you should be aware that I am known here under the name of Nugent. Will you not sit down?"

"Thanks. Oh! so you have changed your name," was the reply. "Well, perhaps it is just as well in the circumstances."

"I am glad it meets with your approval. May I offer you a cup of tea, or perhaps a cigarette? You smoke, I believe?"

"Thanks, yes, I smoke. Oh! Egyptians, I see. Fearfully doctored, you know. Couldn't think of drinking tea. I ate enough of that spread this afternoon to last me for a week. Pretty sight, but I was dying to get away to have a smoke, and now, like a good Samaritan, you have come to my rescue." Another broad smile.

Then followed a silence which Pearl for one was determined not to break.

Lady Martinworth threw herself back in her chair, stuck her feet out before her, and made rings with the cigarette smoke.

"Pretty place, this Tokyo. Been here long?" at length she ejaculated.

"I have lived here rather more than three years," replied Pearl quietly. "Have you come to see me for the purpose of obtaining some information about the place or the people?"

"Nothing further from my thoughts, I assure you. You like it better than London, I suppose? Uncommonly dull place to live in, though, I should think. But no accounting for tastes. I didn't know you were here, you know, or of course I shouldn't have been such a brute as to have come to Japan and disturbed your peace of mind."

Pearl slightly lifted her eyebrows, and looked her companion straight in the face.

"And may I enquire," she asked suavely, "in what possible way you would be likely to do that?"

Lady Martinworth tossed her cigarette into the grate, and rising from her armchair, went and perched herself on the music stool.

"In bringing Martinworth here attached to my apron strings, of course. Hard luck on you both, I call it. Not very pleasant for me, either, you know. Why, he'll detest me more than ever now, which is saying a good deal."

Pearl seated herself in a chair near the music-stool on which her visitor was twirling herself round and round, accompanied by that teeth-edging squeak with which music-stools seem chronically to be affected. She laid her hand on the stool to try to stop the movement.

"Lady Martinworth," she said, "do you not think it would be wiser for us both to keep Lord Martinworth's name out of this conversation? He and I are old friends. We meet again after some years, and we----"

"Oh, I say," interrupted her companion rudely, "stop that. I don't want a long jobation about your and Martinworth's friendship, you know. I know all about that. Read the whole case from the beginning to the end with the greatest interest. I made up my mind years ago to marry Dick, but of course everyone knew he was otherwise engaged, and when you got your divorce, it was given out that he would marry you. And so he would have done, if you had not bolted like the little idiot you were. Well, ''tis an ill wind that blows no one any good.' You no sooner made yourself scarce than I seized my opportunity. I needn't tell you he never asked me to marry him. I saved him that trouble. And here I am Lady Martinworth, whereas you are.----By the way, by what outlandish name did you say you called yourself?"

Pearl rose and calmly went towards the door, which she threw open.

"Lady Martinworth," she said, very slowly and very icily, "no doubt my education has been sadly neglected, but I must confess, in private matters of this kind, I have only been accustomed to dealing with ladies. As therefore, it is absolutely impossible for me to cope with a person of your calibre, I must beg of you to do me the favour of leaving my house directly."

But Lady Martinworth did not stir from her seat. On the contrary, the eternal smile grew broader on the somewhat homely features. She took a single eyeglass from the breast pocket of her coat, and rubbing it with a silk handkerchief, stuck it calmly into her left eye, gazing meanwhile complacently at Pearl.

"Bravo, bravo!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands, "you really did that very well, you know. What an actress you would make, with your figure and grand air. No wonder Martinworth fell in love with you. I admire his excellent taste, 'pon my word, I do. Poor old fellow, it is hard lines on him, that after having been your slave for so long he should now have to fall back on me. Never mind, we won't talk about him if you don't like it. Do be a sensible woman. Come and sit down, and leave that door to take care of itself. I'm not going just yet, you know, for I have something I want to say to you."

Much to her own astonishment, Pearl found herself obediently following her ladyship's request. She closed the door, and came once more and sat down by her side.

If she had been asked to do so, she could not have defined her sentiments towards this strange woman, who all unbidden, had forced herself into her presence. Coarse, utterly wanting in tact and delicacy as she seemed to be, there was something about her very honesty and good nature that attracted Pearl. She found herself trying to analyse her companion's character, wondering what there was in it, and in the situation altogether, that was tending to change her sentiments towards her visitor. Was it sympathy she asked herself--a feeling of sorrow that was now taking possession of her?

She answered gently, "Forgive me for my brusqueness. If there is anything you wish to say to me, I shall be willing to listen to you. Can I be of use to you in any way?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Lady Martinworth rose from her seat and clasped Pearl's two hands.

"Yes," she said, "you can be of great use to me, if you will. You can be my friend. Will you?"

There was no reply, for Pearl was deeply considering this extraordinary request. What did it mean? Was the woman sincere, or was it merely a clever move on her part to secure the alliance of a person who otherwise might be an impediment, a dangerous rival? The ups and downs of a stormy existence had developed in Pearl a certain mistrustfulness, a suspiciousness of disposition, otherwise unnatural to her, and considering the circumstances of the case, she felt in no wise inclined to jump at this unexpected proposal. While she was debating in her mind what reply to make, Lady Martinworth spoke again.

"Well, I see you don't like the notion," she said, moving towards the window. "Why should you? I suppose you and I haven't an idea or a taste in common. I have never had a woman friend in my life, and have never wanted to have one. Till now I have always looked on women as poor creatures. But somehow you seem different from the rest. I liked the way you went to that door and wanted to turn me out. Real plucky I call it, and one so seldom sees pluck in a woman. Then the way you left it when I asked you to do so showed me you had a heart, for I saw you were feeling sorry for me. I've got a heart too, whatever you may think of me. Yes, Mrs. Nugent, I've got a heart. One that is full of love for my husband, too, though he little knows it."

As Lady Martinworth uttered these last words, she might have been called almost pretty. A wonderfully tender light lit up the small eyes, and the wide mouth smiled very sweetly as she continued:

"And that is just it, that is just why I ask you to be my friend. I love my husband. He doesn't care a rap about me, you know. No! not one little bit. In fact, I know there are times when he downright detests me. I well know he is just as devoted to you as ever he was. Of course he has adored you for years. You are a good woman, I know you are, in spite of that nasty speech I made about the divorce case. With your pretty face and unhappy married life you must, of course, have had heaps of temptations, and yet, as I look at you, I feel convinced you have always kept as straight as a die. You have got such nice true eyes. Yes, 'pon my word, I like you, Mrs. Nugent. I feel you are a trump, and it would make me thoroughly happy if you would do me the kindness of calling me your friend. Cannot you make an effort in that direction? Do try. I know I am not a very attractive person, but one thing I swear to you, I am neither mean nor petty, and I am sure that, so far, I have never willingly done a shabby action. Of course, those qualities are not much to boast of, but they are all I possess, so I enumerate them, and I do so want a friend--oh! I do so want a friend."

At these words Lady Martinworth suddenly hid her face in her hands and burst into a flood of tears.

Pearl began to think there was to be no end to the surprises of that day. Now, behold! as a climax to every excitement, Lady Martinworth, succumbing, like any other member of her sex, to an hysterical attack of nerves. It was this womanly, weak action that conquered Pearl, and if Lady Martinworth had but known it, she could not have chosen better tactics to have achieved her ends.

Pearl understood that in spite of those mannish ways and the abrupt speech, in spite of the general roughness and uncouthness, in spite of all these outward traits that on ordinary occasions would have gone so far towards repelling a gentle nature such as her own, that nevertheless she had there, seated in her house in the abandonment of grief, a friendless, miserable woman, with a woman's heart and a woman's weakness. Realizing this, Pearl kissed her and put her arms about her, as only a woman knows how to kiss and soothe, and comfort another of her sex.

Half an hour later, a grateful and transformed Lady Martinworth departed from Mrs. Nugent's house, and Pearl was left once more to her thoughts. Poor Pearl! they could hardly be reckoned pleasant thoughts. She perfectly well understood that she was being entangled in a net, that net of circumstances which is oft-times so strangely and so strongly woven that to the unfortunate victim entrapped within there appears no possible loophole of escape.

She thought of this interview just past, and asked herself where would it lead her? An hour ago she considered herself the natural enemy of the wife of the man she loved. Now, to her bewilderment, she found she had vowed eternal friendship and protection to this woman, who in the usual order of things, according to all natural laws, she ought to treat, if not with great dislike, certainly with fear, avoidance and distrust.

And yet, strange to say, she did not in the least regret her action, for she pitied with all her heart the woman who in such a genuine outburst of grief, had prayed for her friendship. All the chivalry of Pearl's generous nature was aroused when she thought of this poor, friendless, heart-broken woman crying to her for help--to her who, from Lady Martinworth's own confession, was still the sole recipient of Dick Martinworth's love. Lady Martinworth had thrown herself, as it were, on her protection, and Pearl then and there vowed to herself, that as far as it lay in her power, as far as strength would be given her to carry out her intentions, she would not prove her false.

She had she knew well, a difficult task before her, and she did not disguise from herself the fact that in this matter there would be not only herself, not only her own strength, her own endurance to be reckoned with, but Martinworth, from whom she had fled, and who was here once more on the spot. He knew his power, and he would surely use it. Of that she had no doubt. Her dread of that power, of that determination of will, was as great now as had been the case in former years. After all,--as she had written of herself in her farewell letter at that time,--she was but a woman--a helpless, loving woman, weak and frail. On that occasion, when she had thought, rightly or wrongly, her disappearance was for his benefit, her love had given her the almost superhuman strength to fly from him. Now she had only herself to think of, and one other forlorn woman--a stranger,--who had prayed to her for help. Could she hope to be given a second time the power to resist his undeniable influence over her? Could she resist his importunities,--his prayers? He was so strong, so very strong, and she was so loving, so lonely, and so weak.