Front matter (continued 4)

At this juncture Pearl remained silent a long time. So long, indeed, that de Güldenfeldt thought she had completed what she wished to say, and he was himself about to speak when--holding up her hand to silence him--she continued:--

"And now, Stanislas, comes the worst part of what I have to say. It is death to me to tell you what followed, but even at the risk of losing you for ever I feel you must, before calling me your wife, know the truth about me. Martinworth was hardly out of the house before I repented of what I had done. I longed for him so. And I was so very, very lonely. That night, however, and for many days and nights, I prayed God to keep him from me. I prayed with all my heart, with all my strength, and yet were my prayers truly sincere? I know not. I thought they were. But one day, when I saw that he kept away, that he did not come, I wrote to him and told him--and told him--that--"

Here Pearl paused again, hiding her face in her hands.

"Yes," said de Güldenfeldt gravely, as he laid his hand gently on her arm, "I understand, dear. Don't enter into particulars. Don't pain yourself by unnecessary explanations."

"I expected him that evening," continued Mrs. Nugent in a muffled voice, "and Stanislas--I was happy, quite happy in the thought that he would come to me. But even now, I cannot tell how or why it was, but as the hour drew near I began to feel--to realise the enormity of my sin. It came upon me with a sudden flash that I--I who had fought and resisted and striven so long, that I, Pearl Nugent--so proud of my virtue, so scornful of the want of it in others--was falling from the height of my pride and self-content, falling, falling--to utter destruction, to utter perdition of body and of soul.

"The horror of that moment--of that awakening--I can never express. The iron has entered into my soul, and will leave its mark for ever. At first, I believed it was too late to retract. I did not know what to do--where to fly from the misery and dishonour that I knew were overtaking me. Then I thought of Amy. And though she had told me she was going to a ball that night, a ball that would settle her future one way or the other, I wrote begging her to give it up, imploring her to come to me at once. She came. And her presence in my house that evening saved me."

"And Martinworth?" inquired de Güldenfeldt, fixing his piercing eyes on Pearl's face.

"Lord Martinworth came at the hour appointed. He stayed a short time, a very short time. I can hardly tell you what passed--for I know that I--I--was partially unconscious most of the time that he remained. I remember however, his leave-taking. It was, Stanislas, an eternal farewell. He acted generously--nobly, as only he could act. But I hardly knew what he said. I longed so for him to leave me--for him to go. And it was only when the door closed behind him that I breathed and lived once more.

"And now, my friend, you have heard all I have to tell you. It is, I know, a shameful story. A story of weakness and of humiliation. Since that awful night, my one hope, my one prayer, has been never more to set eyes on this man, who until that evening had for so many years engrossed my affections and my thoughts. My prayer, it appears, is not to be answered. He is going to Chuzenji. The knowledge of this move of his I thought at first would kill me. But now I know that you love me, that you are near me and--and----"

"Yes! you know all, and, Stanislas, perhaps now you will retract your words, and cast me off--and say you do not care for me. For indeed, I am not worthy--unstable, foolish, weak woman that I am--to be the wife of such a man as you."

Pearl ceased. And for a moment there was silence. Mrs. Nugent felt herself trembling, as with averted eyes she gazed out at the waving pine trees far before her. De Güldenfeldt's face, which had been grave and rather stern while Pearl was speaking, remained pensive for some seconds longer. He looked at her and his expression changed, while a gleam like a ray of sun lit up his blue eyes. He smiled very sweetly as he took Pearl in his arms, and pushing back the little auburn curls, kissed her again on the forehead.

"My poor child--my poor child," he murmured, "to think that once you should have told me that bitter experience had taught you a lesson--the lesson how to protect yourself. Ah, Pearl, you may be beautiful--you may be sweet--you may be the angel of goodness that I think you, in spite of the many hard names you call yourself,--you may be all these things and much, much more, but of one fact I am certain--you are sadly in need of someone to help you, to take charge of you, to guide you, darling. That task, with your permission, I, Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, mean for the future to undertake."

Thus, in perfect peace and contentment, they sat together until the evening fell and the stars came out. It was only as they slowly wended homewards that Pearl, on looking back into the gloaming, realised with dread and a sad foreboding, that their mutual vows had been interchanged beneath the shadow of a tomb.

CHAPTER XI.

The Price of a Kiss.

Pearl's engagement to Stanislas de Güldenfeldt was not generally announced. They both had their reasons for keeping the fact to themselves, and it was only Mrs. Nugent's immediate family, and Sir Ralph Nicholson, as so soon to form one of that family, who were initiated into the secret.

Rosina was radiant, as indeed she well might be, for, after months of feminine vacillation, were not both her beautiful charges at last satisfactorily disposed of? Naturally, perhaps, she took the credit of Pearl's engagement entirely to herself. She told her husband it would never have come off if it had not been for that necessary progging, given so judiciously to the devoted and constant, yet hesitating lover.

At this information Mr. Rawlinson growled forth the remark that she would far better have left matters alone. That people who mixed themselves up in such affairs generally ended by burning their own fingers, and that if de Güldenfeldt, at his age, didn't know his own mind, well, all that he could say was he was a far greater fool than he had given him credit for being.

He further remarked--for when once wound up Tom Rawlinson was not devoid of conversation,--that it was perfect bosh, in his opinion, this ridiculous effusion and fuss over a simple and every-day engagement of marriage. No doubt all the world gushed in the same absurd manner over Pearl's first marriage. And pray, how had that turned out? Certainly he, for one, didn't see that de Güldenfeldt was doing such a very good thing for himself. True, Pearl was a pretty woman, pleasant too, and had an uncommonly good fortune of her own. But then, look at that business with her first husband, to say nothing of that uncomfortable scandal with that fellow Martinworth, who, in his opinion, would far better have kept in England, instead of coming to Japan and getting into further mischief.

For his own part, he liked de Güldenfeldt. He was a capital chap, and he thought it was a pity he was wasting himself on a woman who, in spite of certain attractions, never succeeded in being of the same mind two days running. In fact, in his humble opinion, he was far too good for Pearl.

Thus, having reduced his wife almost to the verge of tears, Tom Rawlinson took his hat and went for a tramp across the hills.

Nevertheless, shortly after he had relieved his mind in this downright fashion, Mr. Rawlinson informed Pearl that it was his express wish that she should be married from his house. He likewise announced his intention of bearing all the expenses of the trousseau and the wedding. In fact he begged that she would understand that she was to look upon herself, for that occasion at least, as a daughter of the house. Further, he requested her acceptance of a trifling cheque with which to buy herself a jewel, which, he need not add, he would feel greatly flattered by her wearing on her wedding day.

The cheque was a substantial one, representing the sum of a hundred guineas.

By this time all the party had moved up to Chuzenji. Pearl was supremely happy in her Japanese wooden house on the borders of the lake. She loved her picturesque, bright little abode, with its fresh, clean tatami, [13] its beautifully engrained wood, its white walls and ceilings, and its sliding paper doors and cupboards. But above all, she loved the broad, cool verandah, on which was passed the hot period of the day, and from which was visible the most extensive, the most lovely view of lake and mountains in all Chuzenji. She would rest her arms on the balustrade of this verandah, which hung completely over the water, and there she would remain, idle and happy for hours, watching the limpid, laughing lake with its frame of wooded mountains and its ever changing banks of clouds.

But it was in the early morning that Pearl found Chuzenji the most seductive, that she loved it best. After the opening of the amado [14] --without which protection against storm and rain and thieves no Japanese house would be complete--she would lie in bed, and with her face turned towards the lake would watch with a dreamy fascination the scene before her.

And indeed, the picture upon which she gazed with enchanted eyes was an ideal one. The sapphire blueness of the water, on which at that hour seldom a ripple was to be seen--the chain of wooded mountains rising up large and indistinct, and garlanded by vast pearly belts of caressing, fleecy clouds,--the little village on the opposite side, with its sparkling beach and tiny wooden houses, glistening like snow in the brilliant sun--the Japanese fishing boat, with one great, white wing faintly fluttering in the soft and wavering breeze--Pearl would gaze entranced at all this bewitching beauty of the mysterious silent morn, enveloped in a hazy mantle of perfect peace and calm--and, gazing, she would thank God that she lived.

Monsieur de Güldenfeldt was as enthusiastic as his fiancée over the varied charms of Chuzenji. They would pass together the greater part of those sweet, sunny days, either sailing or rowing on the lake, or when they wished to vary their form of exercise, taking long tramps across the mountains to the plains where the myriads of wild flowers and the great white tiger lilies grow. As Pearl became stronger, they would sometimes walk to the neighbouring village of Yumoto, most beautiful and secluded, with its forest of giant pines and maples that overhang the miniature lake. Curious and unique, too, is this lovely mountain spot, its chief characteristic being its open-air sulphur baths, among the suffocating fumes of which the lower-class Japanese of both sexes are seen disporting themselves, sometimes for hours at a time, their sole array being Nature's garb of innocent simplicity.

Meanwhile, Pearl was far from feeling that happiness and contentment of mind she certainly counted upon when she bound herself by promise to marry Monsieur de Güldenfeldt. As the days passed she knew, without analysing her feelings very deeply, that it was impossible for her to give that love that he in time would without doubt claim as his due. In spite of his many delightful qualities which called forth her sincere admiration, in spite of his more than ordinary share of intelligence and good looks, of the seductive tones and subtle charm of manner, and above all,--in spite of his great and absorbing devotion to herself, Pearl Nugent's heart did not beat one iota the faster at the sound of his voice, at the touch of his hand, or at his presence by her side.

And the day when she discovered to her dismay the fact that not only did she not care for him, but that, above all, de Güldenfeldt's great affection for herself was acting as an irritant upon her nerves, Mrs. Nugent was indeed a woman to be pitied. Before her engagement she had thoroughly appreciated the hundred little attentions with which he had surrounded her, and what is more, had almost looked upon them as her right. Now however, that she was bound to him by promise, she found her feelings undergoing an unexpected and most lamentable transformation. She made every effort to disguise this change of front from her lover, and she flattered herself that she succeeded fairly well.

Her surprise, therefore, would have been profound, and would have equalled her dismay, if she had divined that Stanislas de Güldenfeldt was, to a very great extent, aware of the constant and bitter struggle that was being fought within her heart.

De Güldenfeldt was, however, a patient man. His chief object had been gained, namely, Pearl's promise of herself. He was, therefore, content to bide his time for what he flattered himself must necessarily follow ere long--the promise of her love.

But though generally right in his calculations, on this occasion the Swedish Minister was entirely at fault. Indeed, it was not surprising that in this instance he should make a mistake. De Güldenfeldt's knowledge of the intricate workings of the female mind was unusually vague and superficial for one who so prominently and for so many years had mixed in the world. His immersion hitherto in the political and the more serious side of his profession, and the life led--as a recreation to those duties--of scientific thought and study, was the worst school for attaining a knowledge of womankind. Stanislas at this period of his existence, though he was the last to acknowledge this deficiency, was more ignorant than many a modern youth of twenty of those inexplicable feminine contradictions that contribute not only towards the frenzy and the despair, but likewise to the frequent destruction of too confiding man.

If his experience of women had been a trifle greater, de Güldenfeldt's eyes would have opened to the fact that this very indifference to his presence, this very shrinking from his words and acts of affection, which Pearl tried so vainly to disguise, was the sure and certain proof that no amount of persuasion, of patience, or of tact would succeed in securing him that love on which he relied for his future happiness. If he could but have known it, Pearl was simply incapable of again feeling a throb of passion. Her devotion for Martinworth had lasted too long--had burnt too deeply into her soul--to be capable of being rekindled, or of blazing afresh, lighted by another hand. Pearl knew it now. And as the days went on, and she was more and more in de Güldenfeldt's society, and as more and more he treated her as his own especial property, she gradually realized that of the many mistakes she had made of late, this last was the most disastrous, the most fatal of her life.

It was about this time that Mrs. Nugent received an answer to her letter to Mr. Hall. Enclosed with the letter was a copy of her will drawn up from the rough draft she had sent her lawyer, and which only required to be signed and witnessed to make it legal. Pearl put the private letter aside to be perused at leisure, and witnessed by Count Carlitti and Tom Rawlinson, she signed the document, with the intention of despatching it by the mail that was leaving the same day.

Mr. Rawlinson was nothing if not business-like. And whereas Carlitti had signed the will in a blissful state of ignorance as to its purport or contents, and at the sight of a favourite lady-friend sweeping past Pearl's door had immediately hurried in pursuit,--the former, before venturing to put his name to paper, had ponderously read and weighed every clause of the document.

"You will excuse me, Pearl," he said, as after a very firm and upright 'Thomas Rawlinson,' he deposited the parchment on the table, and leaning against the frail wood-work of the Japanese shoji [15] he lit a cigar, "you will excuse me if I venture, as a member of the family, to make a remark. In my opinion this is an uncommonly rum sort of will of yours. Deuced pleasant for Amy Mendovy, I allow, and it is nice of you to have remembered Rosina so extremely handsomely. But may I be allowed to inquire where your future husband, de Güldenfeldt, has a look in? It seems to me that you have ignored his existence altogether."

Pearl flushed. "I am not yet married to Monsieur de Güldenfeldt," she murmured, "and as his fiancée I have certainly never for a moment thought of leaving him my money. He does not need it. He has plenty of his own."

"Doubtless," and Pearl blushed a deeper crimson under the scrutiny of the keen eyes, "but you will, I suppose, in the natural course of events, be married to him before many months have passed. It is, I should have thought, hardly seemly to cut him out entirely. Don't you agree with me?"

"The date of our marriage is not yet fixed. I am not married to him yet," she repeated, rather helplessly. "When--when we are married--nothing will be easier, I suppose, than to make a new will. In fact the old will does not hold good in those circumstances. Besides, there will be the settlements. I am perfectly aware that you mean well, Tom. But don't distress yourself. I know what I am about."

"Well, then, I'm blest if I do, and that's flat!" exclaimed Rawlinson. "No shilly shallying, I hope, my fair cousin. Let me tell you, once for all, de Güldenfeldt is not the sort of fellow to stand any confounded feminine nonsense. Pay attention to what I say, my dear, and don't for heaven's sake, behave like a fool."

Pearl drew herself up, and her eyes flashed ominously.

"Really, Tom," she said, "I think you--you--go a little too far. You presume somewhat on our relationship. I do not wish to believe that you have any real intention of being rude or disagreeable, but--well--to begin with, I never asked you to read my will. And I don't believe for a moment that it is usual for a witness to read through a will before signing it."

"Don't you, indeed! Well! I tell you it is usual for Tom Rawlinson to do so. You needn't have done me the honour of asking me to witness it if you didn't like the habit. But," he added, seeing she still looked angry, "don't let us wrangle about such a trifle. You mustn't be vexed at my plain speaking, Pearl. Remember, I stand in loco parentis to you, and if that position doesn't give me the right to offer advice and to speak my mind, I don't know what should. But when, I should like to know, did a woman ever take advice? Nevertheless, I repeat I am puzzled with regard to your treatment of de Güldenfeldt. He is a first-rate chap, Pearl."

"Oh! you dear old Tom, as if I didn't know that. Am I likely to forget it, when the fact is being everlastingly dinned into my poor ears? How often have I not been told by you, and Rosina, and Amy, that I am the luckiest woman on the face of the earth to have succeeded in securing such a treasure? It is not necessary to impress this information so often, so very often, upon me, I assure you, Tom. I am perfectly aware of my good luck, and you may rest satisfied that I have no intention whatsoever of forfeiting such a prize. Nevertheless, in spite of your objections, and of anything that you may consider it your duty to say, my money, certainly for the present, goes to Amy, and not to Stanislas. Why! it was chiefly for that purpose and for the pleasure of being able to leave it to her, that I decided to accept that horrid fortune."

"Indeed! Well, I suppose you know your own wishes best. She's a lucky girl. Not that she is ever likely to get it. Your life is as good as hers, any day," with which farewell shaft Tom Rawlinson took his departure.

"A queer woman, that Pearl," he remarked to his wife that evening over his second glass of port. "Hysterical, and nervous and uncertain. I wouldn't be in that poor fellow de Güldenfeldt's shoes for all I'm worth. Not that she'll ever marry him, that's one blessing."

"What?" shrieked Rosina and Amy in chorus. "Oh, Tom, what do you mean?" added his wife tremulously.

"I mean what I say. At the last moment--she'll wait till then, of course--but at the last moment, Pearl Nugent will throw de Güldenfeldt over. I warn you she has not the slightest intention of marrying him. She finds it very convenient to have a devoted idiot eternally dangling after her. But she'll never come up to the scratch. She's as shifty and as vacillating as you make 'em. A most untrustworthy woman, I call her, in spite of her prettiness, her money, and all the rest of it."

"You've disliked Pearl from the commencement, Tom," replied Rosina as she rose from the table, "and of course nothing I may say will be likely to change your opinion. But I really think, before making these rash assertions, you should have some grounds to go upon."

"I by no means dislike your Pearl. In fact I rather like her. But with regard to her heart affairs, she--as a weak, vacillating member of your sex,--in my opinion, takes the cake. Mark my words, Rosina, my fair and fascinating cousin Pearl will never be the wife of Stanislas de Güldenfeldt."

"As he gets older your poor uncle's habit of constantly repeating himself increases," remarked Rosina, as she and Amy settled themselves in the little rowing boat. "He really is a most tiresome man. This engagement of Pearl's is so very satisfactory in every way. I was so enchanted about it. And now he makes me wretched with those horrid prognostications of his. I wonder what can have induced him to take such an annoying idea into his head. So shortly after everything has all been comfortably settled, too. You don't think that there is any ground for his fears, do you, Amy?"

Amy was silent, while her eyes grew thoughtful. "Yes," she said after a minute, "I think that perhaps uncle is right. I am sure Pearl is not happy, auntie. She tries her utmost to like Stanislas, but nothing she can do will ever succeed in making her really care for him. He has got on her nerves. I can see that."

"And he's such a dear, charming fellow, and so absolutely devoted to her."

"Whereas, if he were a worthless but fascinating scoundrel, who merely desired to marry her for her money, she would probably adore him, and be grovelling at his feet for a kind word. We women are made like that," replied Amy, with a worldly wisdom beyond her years.

"Well, at any rate, your affairs and Ralph's are all right. That's one comfort."

"I'm not so sure of that. I've discovered lately that Ralph is by no means perfection, and as life is far too short to devote time to the correction of settled bad habits, I'm not at all certain, auntie, but that in the end I may be reduced to the unpleasant necessity of throwing him over," and Amy's eyes gleamed with mischief as she glanced up at her aunt and gave an extra strong pull at the sculls.

Mrs. Rawlinson's face for the space of a moment was indicative of the deepest despair. But bitter experience had taught her wisdom, and she made no reply. She had long ago given up attempting to fathom the intricate traits of her young niece's character, or of trying to decide in her own mind those moments when Amy meant seriously or the reverse. Thus on the present occasion she held her peace, and with a sigh of resignation placidly folded her plump hands upon her lap. Trusting that a merciful Providence would take the matter up, she offered a secret prayer that in spite of the perversity of a troublesome niece, all might ultimately come right in the end.

The Martinworths had taken possession of their rooms in the hotel. Circumstances, however, had so far arranged themselves that the inevitable meeting between Pearl and Lord Martinworth had not so far taken place. Pearl had on the contrary been constantly thrown in contact with his wife, the latter having contracted the habit of running in and out of Mrs. Nugent's house whenever an opportunity occurred. Pearl found her looking both unhappy and ill, but though she more than half divined the cause, Lady Martinworth volunteered no information, rarely indeed mentioning her husband's name. It was purely incidentally that, in the course of conversation one day, Pearl learnt that Lord Martinworth's health was, in his wife's opinion by no means satisfactory, and consequently, the cause of considerable anxiety.

With that vague fear and dismay felt by Pearl whenever she now thought or spoke of Martinworth, she nevertheless nerved herself, on receiving this intimation, to make one or two necessary and polite inquiries.

"I hope," she said rather formally, "that you are not seriously uneasy as to Lord Martinworth's health? If so, this is the last place to bring him to. We have no doctor up here, you know."

"Life is too short to fuss over people who decline to be fussed over," replied Lady Martinworth philosophically. "Dick bites off my head if I suggest he is out of sorts. So now I hold my tongue. But the fact remains, his nerves are completely unstrung, and he's jumpy to a degree. His temper, too, has been unbearable ever since he returned from that trip. I think it must be the Japanese food that disagreed with him. He lived on it for two months. And we all know the digestion acts to a great extent on the temper and the nerves."

Pearl smiled. "I should say it is much more likely to be the climate than the food. Nervous people always come to grief in Japan. I should get him away if I were you."

Lady Martinworth glanced sharply at Mrs. Nugent.

"That is most excellent advice, my dear," she said dryly, "and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to follow it. But unfortunately Martinworth possesses a will before which--from my experience--everything and everybody give way in the end."

Pearl changed colour, and turned the conversation.

It was some days after the above remarks that Mrs. Nugent and de Güldenfeldt decided to row half way down the lake to Shogonohama. They beached their boat, wandering under the shade of the maples, till they found themselves in the little hut overlooking the waterfall. The rain had poured in torrents for the whole of the day and night before. The cascade, always beautiful, was that day simply magnificent, and the sheets of water crowned with their wreaths of snowy foam, were tearing over the smooth surface of the rocks, and across the fallen trunks of trees, in unbridled and uncontrollable fury. The sight was a glorious one, if somewhat appalling, and the noise was deafening. Pearl and de Güldenfeldt sat close to each other, silent and impressed, he half supporting her with his arm, for the barrier against which they leant--a frail and rotten bamboo--was their only protection from sure and summary destruction.

The sight of rushing, roaring waters invariably worked upon Pearl's emotions. The present moment, with its many lovely accessories, a brilliant blue sky, massive, fern-grown rocks, and surrounding woods of every shade of green--stirred her greatly, and combined in awakening feelings that had long lain dormant in her heart.

With unusual demonstrativeness she turned towards Stanislas, her lips parted, and her eyes shining like stars, and taking his hand between her own, she laid it gently against her cheek. Since their engagement, Pearl had volunteered but few proofs of tenderness, and the present action on her part was so spontaneous, so unexpected, that Stanislas felt the blood surging up into his head, and his heart throbbing, as in reply he leant forward, and pressing her to him, he kissed her passionately on the lips.

A moment later they both instinctively knew--for they could hear nothing owing to the deafening roar of the waters,--that someone was watching them from behind. They turned simultaneously, their eyes meeting those of Lord Martinworth fixed upon them--while Amy Mendovy--apparently extremely wretched and uncomfortable--was standing by his side.

Arriving from an opposite direction and at that unfortunate moment sharply turning a corner, Martinworth and Amy had fallen thus upon the unconscious pair, necessarily witnessing the whole tender and silently acted scene.

At such a sacred moment, the last thing one would ask is to be disturbed, and however true and deep and absorbing may be a man's feelings at the time, it is hardly a pleasant sentiment to know that to the ordinary outside and amused observer one must necessarily be looking somewhat like a fool.

And yet, to his intense annoyance, it was in this undignified and unusual position that de Güldenfeldt now found himself. Perhaps it was only human nature that, being the sole person at fault, his rage should straightway centre itself upon one who so far had proved himself, except by his uncalled-for and unfortunate arrival, entirely inoffensive.

He took two steps forward in Lord Martinworth's direction, and was about to pour forth a flow of angry words and enquiries, when his eloquence was abruptly nipped in the bud by the expression on his would-be victim's face.

And, indeed, the transformation visible on that countenance, which de Güldenfeldt had known so well in former days, was enough not only to astonish, but to paralyze the bravest man. For the face was no longer human. It was almost that of a fiend.

Lord Martinworth was looking straight at Pearl. His blue eyes, which she had always known so soft and tender, so gentle and so kind, gleamed wildly, seeming to be charged with lightning under the contracting eyebrows. His mouth was slightly open, and through the sneering lips shone the white teeth, while the nostrils of the delicate nose were quivering with excitement and with rage. Features so transformed were sufficient in themselves to terrify the most courageous. But an expression of bitter, overwhelming hate and fury, resting like a veil upon the livid face, completed the appalling picture.

He did not say a word. He hardly seemed to breathe. But he stood--for what seemed to the spectators an endless period--staring at Pearl Nugent with those frenzied eyes. With one hand half-lifted before her, as if to shut off the sight, and with the other clutching de Güldenfeldt's arm, she looked back, white and trembling with fear, yet as if half-hypnotised, into Martinworth's face.

At last the tension proving more than she could bear, Pearl gave one little piteous moan, and sank unconscious upon the earthern floor of the shed.

This alarming occurrence roused all from the spell that had hitherto held them silent and inactive. Martinworth, casting one last look of infinite hatred and contempt at the inanimate form, turned and left the hut, while de Güldenfeldt and Amy, bending over Pearl, and engrossed in their attempts to restore her back to consciousness, hardly noticed that he was gone.

For long their efforts seemed unavailing. But at last Pearl slowly opened her grey eyes, smiling sweetly at de Güldenfeldt as he leant over her. Then consciousness and memory returning, the terrified expression shadowed once more the pale face.

"Where is he?" she whispered, starting up. "Has he gone?"

"Yes, my darling, he has gone away," replied Amy, taking the still trembling form in her arms. "You have nothing to fear, Pearl."

"He is gone! And you did not kill him!" exclaimed Pearl, tearing herself from Amy's arms, and facing de Güldenfeldt. "Oh God! you let him go? You did not kill him? And you call yourself a man?"

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's first expression of surprise changed to one of sorrow. At the moment it seemed to him that this most uncalled-for and unexpected attack was a return of Pearl's illness and delirium.

"Hush! dear, hush!" he said soothingly, "Why should I kill Martinworth? He did nothing."

"You say he did nothing?" she cried excitedly. "You saw the horrible way in which he looked at me, and you say he did nothing? Oh, coward!--coward!"

The blood flew into de Güldenfeldt's cheeks, and he bit his lips.

"Don't excite yourself, Pearl," he replied quietly. "Of course, if you think Martinworth has insulted you, he shall answer to me for it. Now come home, for you are ill, dear, and it is getting late."

Pearl said no more, suffering herself to be led between Amy and Stanislas, though she was still trembling like a leaf when they placed her in the boat. From the moment that she was seated in the stern, Mrs. Nugent lapsed into gloomy silence. Her former excitement, greatly to the relief of both, appeared to have passed as quickly as it had risen. She sat with her hands clasped on her knees, staring out before her, but taking no notice of passing objects.

The silent row home against a high wind seemed endless. But at length they arrived at Mrs. Nugent's house, and Amy, as a matter of course, followed her cousin within its shelter.

Stanislas knew that with Miss Mendovy Pearl was in safe and tender hands. But he looked very white and drawn, and he heaved a deep sigh as turning back into the boat he sculled himself home.

From the moment that he and Amy had half lifted her into the boat Pearl had completely ignored his presence, nor had she answered, or taken any notice whatsoever, of her lover's farewell salutation.

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt had indeed paid dearly for that one moment's happiness of the touch of Pearl's soft hand upon his cheek!

CHAPTER XII.

Danger-Signals.

Pearl was very silent and very pale during dinner. As for Amy, she simply waited, for she knew that in time her cousin must speak.

She was nevertheless hardly prepared for the manner in which the conversation at length opened.

The peaches were being handed round, when Pearl, glancing suddenly at the girl opposite to her, asked abruptly:--

"Amy, how was it that you went with Lord--with that man to-day--so far from home?"

"I was taking a walk with him," replied Amy quietly.

"It seems to me that you accompany him very frequently in his walks, Amy. Ralph said the other day that he saw much less of you now-a-days than formerly, your time being so greatly engrossed by Lord Martinworth. This sounds very strange to me, considering the circumstances, and I think, dear, if you will forgive my saying so, you are playing rather a dangerous game."

Amy Mendovy did not reply for a minute, while she made little heaps on the table with her bread crumbs.

"I think," she said at length, and the colour rose in her cheeks, "if another time Ralph finds that he has a grievance, it would be best if he complained to me, instead of confiding in other people."

"He didn't complain. He is far too loyal to do that, whatever he may feel," retorted Pearl. "But I saw he was looking worried and out of sorts, so I asked him what was wrong. If anyone is to blame, it is I."

For a time Amy seemed preoccupied. Then she said in a low voice:

"Pearl, surely Ralph--surely you--do not think that I--I am amusing myself with Lord Martinworth--that I am flirting with him?"

Pearl put her hand on her young cousin's arm, for by this time they had risen from the dinner table.

"I don't know what to think, Amy," she replied, with her grave, sweet smile. "This friendship seems so unusual, so--so strange."

"Nevertheless, it is easily explained," retorted Amy quickly. "I rather like Lord Martinworth, but only rather, for he is often very peculiar, very odd. I frequently find it difficult to make him out. But of one thing I am sure--I never felt quite so sorry for anyone in my life as I feel for him. Pearl, that poor man is so desperately unhappy. He worships you. Of course, it is all very wrong, at least--I suppose it is. But I am sure it is natural enough. What is more, I believe, poor fellow, the worry is actually turning his brain. He does and says such strange things, Pearl, and is so morose. He has taken a fancy to me simply and purely because I am one of your belongings. And I, out of sheer sympathy--sheer pity--go for walks with him, and have tried as much as I can to cheer him up with my chatter and my nonsense. So now you understand. As for flirting, the idea is absurd. Why I never knew such a silent, abstracted man. But he seems grateful to me when I rattle along. And he brightens up a little at times. I thought I was doing some good for once in a way," she added plaintively, "but seem merely to have succeeded in placing myself in a false position."

Pearl merely sighed impatiently in reply. She wandered aimlessly about the room, then fidgetted with a piece of work, then opened a book, but, almost as quickly closed it. At last she took a lily from a flower vase and began abstractedly pulling it to pieces. Finally, she went towards her cousin, and placing her hand upon Amy's arm, glanced up into her face.

"Amy," she said almost inaudibly, "did you--did you see that awful, that terrible look that he--that Lord Martinworth gave me to-day, when he came upon Stanislas and myself in the hut?"

"Yes," replied Amy, without hesitation, "I saw it, dear."

"Amy, I must tell you what I think. There--was--murder--in that look!"

Pearl's eyes grew round with fear. She hurt Amy's arm as she whispered these words.

"I felt it--I knew it," she added, "and it was the suddenness, Amy, of this overwhelming, positive knowledge that made me faint away."

"Hush, dear, hush!" replied Amy, putting both arms round her. "You are excited and nervous. Your nerves are unstrung. You know they never have been quite normal since your illness. You are apt, darling, to fancy and exaggerate things. You are thoroughly upset, Pearl. He simply looked angry and surprised, dear, as well he might, for, of course, he is ignorant of your engagement to Stanislas. Seeing you together in the hut--and--and--so affectionate--must have been his first inkling of anything out of the common."

"Amy," exclaimed Pearl, unlocking the girl's arms from about her waist, "you are not speaking the truth, and you know it. Don't you understand that I, who have known Lord Martinworth for so many years, have learnt by heart every look of his eyes, every expression of his features. And do you for a moment suppose that I have ever seen that look, or anything like it, on his face before? Never! And I pray God I may never see it again. If I do, I know there can be no possible escape for me. For as surely as I am standing in this room, Dick Martinworth will kill me!"

At these tragic words Amy gave a little cry and her lips grew pale. Both women lapsed into gloomy silence, while Amy--once more placing her arms tenderly round her cousin, drew her out on to the verandah. They watched the moon in all her glory, lighting up with mystic glow mountains and woods and silent lake. The soft, mild light seemed to have a soothing effect upon Pearl's storm-tossed mind, for after a time she spoke more calmly.

"Of course," she said, with a long-drawn sigh, "it was very, very wrong of me, just because I was upset--half mad with fear--to behave as I did to poor innocent Stanislas. I cannot now understand how I could have called him--Stanislas--of all men--a coward. How I could have said those wicked things about his--killing--killing the other one. I did not know, Amy, I had it in me to be so hard, so unjust, so--so cruel. But lately I have discovered more than one detestable trait in my character unguessed before. Oh, dear, if you only knew how I hate and scorn myself, how cordially sometimes I wish I were dead!"

"If," replied Amy, alarmed at this fresh outburst, and speaking in her most calm and composed manner, "if you do not intend that Monsieur de Güldenfeldt should carry out your wish of killing Lord Martinworth, you had better perhaps, let him know without further delay that you have changed your mind. I believe people even in these enlightened days, still sometimes fight duels."

Pearl looked startled, then she sighed wearily, but made no reply. As the evening wore on she grew calmer and more collected. But she did not again refer to the subject, and by the time Amy left her, all traces of excitement and tears had vanished.

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt had returned home feeling thoroughly upset and distressed. Making every allowance that he reasonably could for the temporary excitement of an hysterical woman, he still found it difficult not to feel wounded at Pearl's behaviour, so uncalled-for and inconsiderate. Of late, he had more than once noticed an irritability and fractiousness of disposition, which before her illness had certainly been unknown to him. But this was the first time he had been treated to such an outburst as that which followed the unfortunate meeting with Lord Martinworth. Even that, considering the circumstances, he would have freely forgiven, for he knew that women suffered from a malady called nerves, and at such times they were apt to do and say strange things. What however, he found it difficult to pardon and indeed to comprehend, was not only her air of chilly reserve, but the persistent ill-temper that Pearl had exhibited in the boat and even up to the actual moment of their parting on the shore.

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt had yet to learn that women's moods are incomprehensible in their uncertainty, inexplicable in their variety.

From Pearl's misdemeanours, de Güldenfeldt's thoughts flew to the ominous look witnessed on Lord Martinworth's face. In recalling it to mind, he was forced to acknowledge that the passion it expressed was simply diabolical. He remembered how this expression had staggered him as it crossed his vision, how his blood had boiled to think that such a glance should, even for one second, fall upon the woman whom he loved. In pondering over that look, and the circumstance that gave rise to it, de Güldenfeldt was seized with fury, and at that moment it was perhaps fortunate that Martinworth was considerably beyond the reach of the Swedish Minister's muscular arm. And yet, as Stanislas grew calmer, he realised the difficulty of going to the extremity of killing a man in a duel, simply because the expression of his face had been of an unpleasant nature, and had consequently displeased him.

He was still debating this question in his mind, wondering, as he puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, what steps could possibly be taken, and gazing in perplexity at the moon, which in its brilliancy seemed to mock at his lugubrious thoughts, when Sir Ralph Nicholson appeared on the verandah.

There was a suppressed discomposure and hurry in the latter's manner, and he was paler than usual.

"I say, de Güldenfeldt," he exclaimed, sinking into a cane chair, "we've had a devilish unpleasant thing occur at the hotel. Martinworth has all but cut his throat with his own razor."

"Sapristi!" exclaimed Stanislas under his breath, half-rising from his chair.

"The fellow for the time being was evidently as mad as a hatter," continued Ralph. "Fortunately for him, this charming little tragedy was enacted in his wife's presence. I've no notion what called it forth. There was a row between them, I suppose. But I have gathered from her that he suddenly rushed to the dressing table, and the next thing she saw was the gleam of the razor across his throat! She was up in a second, caught hold of the beastly thing as he was in the very act, had a tremendous struggle with him--she's a strong woman, you know--eventually secured it, and promptly pitched it out of the window."

"Good God! What a terrible business! Is the wound serious?"

"He was bleeding horribly when I rushed in. Their rooms are next to mine, you know, and through those thin partitions I heard the whole affair--the struggle, her screams, etc. I was just dressing for dinner. It appears, however, that the wound is not very deep. His plucky wife prevented that. Her hands are awfully cut about, too. But she's kept her wits, and hasn't broken down for a single instant."

"But what have you done with Martinworth?"

"Oh! he's calm enough now. And sane enough too, for the matter of that. Fortunately, there is an army doctor on leave from Hong-Kong staying at the hotel. He has bound up the wound, and says that both Martinworth and his wife will be all right in a few days. We've tried to hush the affair up as much as possible, but of course the story is bound to get about. The question is, de Güldenfeldt, what on earth are we to do with Martinworth?"

"You think he ought to be put into confinement?" enquired de Güldenfeldt with a quick look.

"Well, you see, a man who attempts his own life is supposed as a rule to be hardly responsible for his actions. Besides, I personally look upon the fellow as a dangerous animal. Who knows but that the fancy may take him to attack someone else instead of himself? He has been awfully queer ever since he came up here, and I have not at all liked Amy being so much with him. She thought he seemed ill and unhappy, and kind-hearted little soul that she is, felt sorry for him. I blame myself now for not having sooner prevented this intimacy. But naturally I felt a certain delicacy at interfering in her friendships. But that's neither here nor there. What on earth are we to do with the poor fellow, de Güldenfeldt?"

The two men discussed the question until far into the night. Eventually what appeared like the right,--indeed the only solution,--was arrived at. They decided between themselves that as soon as the wound was sufficiently healed to allow of his removal, Lord Martinworth should be conveyed without delay to the General Hospital in Yokohama, in which place he could be detained in the necessary confinement until it was found possible to transfer him to England.

The plan was in every way a practical one. But in forming it, neither de Güldenfeldt nor Nicholson reckoned on the great opposition likely to be raised by one of the chief persons concerned, namely--the wife of the injured man.

The subject was approached by Ralph the next morning, who with that purpose in view, begged Lady Martinworth for a private interview. But after a short time, looking pale and flustered, he rejoined de Güldenfeldt, who was smoking his cigar while waiting for him outside the hotel.

In emphatic terms he announced that never again would he undertake such a mission, for he had passed through one of the most painful, the most unpleasant half-hours ever spent in his life.

It appeared that after considerable hesitation and beating about the bush, Ralph came at length to the point. At first--he told de Güldenfeldt--Lady Martinworth did not appear to understand, but that when she finally grasped his meaning her anger was uncontrollable. She turned on Ralph, and positively white with rage, asked him how he dared to insult her and her husband--to say nothing of the family of Martinworth generally--with such an iniquitous proposition? She affirmed over and over again, in the most angry and positive terms, that Lord Martinworth was as sane as Ralph himself, that in fact, the action of the night before had merely been the result of a temporary mental disturbance caused by an unexpected shock, followed by great distress of mind.

"Of course," continued Ralph, "I have no notion to what she referred. And my belief is she does not know herself what was the cause or the nature of this shock. I ventured mildly to insinuate that such an unfortunate state of affairs might recur, in which case the danger might not a second time be so easily averted. I was bound to point this out to her, but it was an unfortunate remark on my part, for on the strength of it, what the dickens do you think she did?"

"Go on," replied his listener. "What happened?"

"She caught me by the hand, dragged me across the passage, and would you believe it, before I caught on as to where she was going, ushered me straight into Martinworth's room! He--poor fellow--was lying on the sofa with his throat bound up, though he really did not look half as bad as one might have expected in the circumstances. I went up to him at once. But Lady Martinworth did not give me time to open my lips. 'Dick,' she cried, 'I have brought Sir Ralph Nicholson into your room for the express purpose of proving to him what he declines to believe from my lips--the fact that you are a sane man. He affirms that you were mad last night when this unfortunate accident took place, that you are still mad, and what's more, that you are likely to become worse as time goes on, and that consequently precautions must be taken. He comes here with a proposition which if not so insulting, would really be downright absurd. I expect you will have something to say in reply to both the accusations and the remedy proposed. Of course, you must not talk, but write what you have to say on this,' and pushing some note-paper towards him, she cast a last furious glance at me, and then and there left the room.

"Well, you can fancy, de Güldenfeldt, I felt a bit of a fool standing there. Certainly my sentiments for Lady Martinworth for having deliberately forced me into such an unpleasant position were not of the most amiable description. My reasoning and accusations may have been perfectly correct, still naturally, no fellow likes being called a lunatic to his face, and I was quite prepared for any amount of anger or violence on Martinworth's part.

"However to my astonishment, he did not seem at all put out. In fact he looked quite agreeable, nodded and smiled, pointed to a chair, and began writing at once. Here's his letter. I confess, it doesn't look much like the production of a madman."

And Ralph extracted from his pocket-book a folded epistle, which he straightway handed to de Güldenfeldt.

"You are both right and wrong, my dear Nicholson," it ran. "Last night I was as mad as people who are thoroughly sick of life and are determined to end it--generally are. The mood, the desire for self-extinction, has however, passed. To-day I consider myself perfectly sane, as sane as you are yourself. Indeed, I now realise that I have a purpose before me, and until that purpose is accomplished I can assure you I shall make no further attempt on my life. And, even when my object is fulfilled, I really see no particular reason why I should wish to disappear. Shall I not then have reached the height of my desires? Therefore, why should I wish to die?

But that is not the question now. What I wish to explain to you is that there is absolutely no reason whatever why I should be shut up. For I presume it was with that idea in your mind that you called on my wife this morning? I perfectly understand your view of the case. But I am not mad. So you can go away, my dear fellow, with the assurance that though doubtless your intentions are excellent, they are somewhat uncalled-for, and slightly premature.

Your decidedly amused, Martinworth.

Come and give me a look sometimes. I hope to be able to speak in a few days. It will enliven me much to see your cheery face."

De Güldenfeldt looked serious as he returned the letter.

"I cannot agree with you, Nicholson," he remarked after a minute or two, "in considering this communication the letter of a sane man. Taking his previous acts into consideration, I judge by this letter that he is more dangerously cracked than I even at first imagined him."

"In what way?" enquired Ralph.

"My dear fellow, we all know the deepness and cunning of a madman. And in my eyes that letter is the acme of cunning. What, I should like to know, does he mean by a 'purpose before him?' What, I ask you, is that 'purpose?' Mark my words, my dear Ralph, it means some fiendish design, which, if the poor fellow were sane, would probably be as far from his thoughts or his intentions, as from yours or mine. Of course, nothing can be done without the sanction of his wife. But in my opinion, that man has no right to be at large. Let him work out his 'purpose' in an asylum if he likes. Not among the peaceful community of Chuzenji."

"Well, I don't see what is to be done," replied Ralph with a sigh. "I only hope your suspicions are unfounded, and that there may be no further bother with him. At any rate, perhaps it will be just as well to keep Amy away from him for the present."

"Yes, and above all--Pearl," remarked de Güldenfeldt darkly.

Stanislas was particularly thoughtful as after this conversation, he strolled towards Mrs. Nugent's house. He did not attempt to disguise from himself that he felt extremely anxious on her account. He could not get Martinworth's murderous look out of his mind. It haunted him each time with greater vividness and meaning, and the more clearly it imprinted itself on his vision, the firmer was his impression that it was the wild, vindictive, unreasoning look of a madman.

He still seemed worried and preoccupied when he appeared on Mrs. Nugent's verandah. That lady, glancing quickly into his face as he went towards her, naturally misconstrued the cause.

There were still moments when Pearl felt a certain shyness and dread of her future husband. The present was one of them.

She was paler than usual as she gave her cheek to be kissed.

"Stanislas," she said, still holding his hand, "I have been so ashamed, so unhappy at what occurred yesterday. I am consumed with remorse. Will you forgive me, dear?"

Recent events had obliterated Pearl's misconduct. Her words, however, recalled not only the annoyance, but the considerable distress of which she had been the cause. De Güldenfeldt's glance, as it fell on her, was for once both cold and stern.

"If, Pearl," he said gravely, "you hope in the future to fill well your position as a Diplomatist's wife, the first lesson you must learn is to control not only your speech, but your temper. But let us say no more about it," and his face softened as his eyes rested on her repentant face and he took in all her dainty loveliness. "The man frightened you. You were nervous and unstrung, dear. Perhaps I was wrong to attach so much importance to your irritability, or to be hurt at your treatment of me. Certainly subsequent events have proved that you were to a certain extent justified in your alarm."

"What do you mean?" asked Pearl quickly.

"Put on your hat and I will tell you in the boat. There is a delicious breeze for sailing. It will take us straight to Senji."

It was only after much thought that de Güldenfeldt decided to tell Pearl what had occurred at the hotel. He was anxious not to increase her fears. On the other hand, he knew that she must hear the story sooner or later, and he concluded that it were better she should get the true facts from him than to have imparted to her from some outsider a garbled and exaggerated version. Also, he was anxious, without frightening her too much, to impress upon her the great necessity for being on her guard, a task which, he knew, required both tact and delicacy.

Altogether, Stanislas felt that he had a difficult business before him. He was very desirous that Mrs. Nugent should leave Chuzenji without delay. He intended to use all his powers of persuasion to convince her of the necessity for such a step, and although he was prepared for many objections, he little reckoned on the total failure of his mission.

Pearl's steering was erratic, and her startled eyes looked brighter and bigger than ever, while she listened in silence to all de Güldenfeldt had to tell her. Hearing these distressing details was a truly dreadful ordeal to her. At each word Stanislas let drop, Pearl felt as if a knife was being thrust into her breast. For, if it were indeed true that Dick Martinworth were mad, Pearl instinctively knew that she alone was the cause of that madness. And as Stanislas' grave, calm words fell upon her ears, and the ghastly truth flashed upon her, that she--Pearl Nugent--had driven a man insane for love of her, she wept silently from very bitterness of soul.

So this was the sole result of her strivings, her flight of three years ago, her struggle for respectability and for virtue. So this--the mental collapse of a man, once famous for his brilliant intellect, once noted for his calm impartial judgments--was the climax, to what she in her self-satisfied pride, had been wont to consider a fairly successful victory over manifold temptations, a triumph of entire self-control. It was but now, in obtaining cognizance of his supposed insanity, that Pearl fully appreciated the passionate, yet self-sacrificing nature of Martinworth's devotion. She realised at that moment, that it was this actual act of self-renunciation that had caused the present state of things, the unhinging of that once powerful mind. Her frame shook as this thought was brought home to her. That look of yesterday--everything--seemed to be explained in those three words, "He is mad." He was mad. And she told herself that it was she--Pearl Nugent--by her self-righteous, cold, calm virtue and superiority, who had driven him insane.

She looked out her eyes wide open with dumb misery, at the blue expanse of water before her. Her hand was leaning on the tiller, but she did not move it. De Güldenfeldt watching her tears, partly read and understood the remorse and agony of mind through which she was passing.

He touched her with his hand.

"Don't take it so hardly, dear," he said. "I daresay he will get all right again. Indeed, Nicholson thinks him so now, and you must remember, he is the only one of us who has seen him since this awful thing happened. Don't you think you had better go away for a little, Pearl, until all this has blown over? You will get ill again if you worry so, if you take things so much to heart."

"Go away? What should I go away for? Where would you have me go?"

"Oh, up North,--anywhere. The Rawlinsons and I would of course, accompany you. You must get out of this place. You will get ill again. You badly want a change, Pearl."

"I want a change, when I have not been here a month? No! I have no intention of moving for the present. I am not ill, Stanislas. I am quite well. All I implore is not to be bothered--to be left in peace."

In spite of her petulance, de Güldenfeldt persisted for some time in his entreaties. Till finally Pearl, glancing up at him with an expression of bored surprise, informed him quietly but incisively that his arguments were a mere waste of breath, as she certainly had not the slightest intention of leaving Chuzenji, where she was so satisfactorily installed, until the hot season was over.

"Would you mind," she continued, "once more giving me your reasons why you are so particularly anxious for me to exchange my pleasant little abode here, where I am cool and perfectly contented, for the discomforts of hot, stuffy tea-houses?"

The reasons were not repeated. At that moment the wind changed, and they had to put about. Later, when they were comfortably settled down again, Stanislas took a long look at Pearl's firm, little chin. Not for the first time was it borne upon the Swedish Minister's diplomatic mind, the utter uselessness, the complete futility, of trying to persuade Mrs. Nugent against her will.

CHAPTER XIII.

Hidden Fires.

Prophets of misfortune are apt to experience a decided sentiment of humiliation, perhaps a sneaking disappointment and regret, when their evil prognostications remain unfulfilled.

Monsieur de Güldenfeldt was, however, a pleasant exception to the rule. In spite of the catastrophe he had foretold, it was with genuine relief that as time went on, he proved to his own considerable satisfaction that the calm enjoyments of Chuzenji were as far as he could see, in no danger of being disturbed by the unmanageable presence of a lunatic at large.

After each meeting with Lord Martinworth--and they were necessarily many, for the invalid was soon about again, and in this charming but restricted mountain resort it is difficult to take a stroll without running across all the world--Stanislas confessed he could perceive no signs of the malady that he feared. Indeed, as time passed, and they met for at least a few minutes every day, he concluded that not only was Martinworth perfectly sane, but that he was certainly in manner and in appearance more intelligent, more brisk and wide-awake than nine men out of ten. He had known Dick Martinworth for many years. But during the period of his former friendship he failed to recall those signs of vivid intellect and buoyant spirits, undeniable proofs of which were constantly now being brought before his notice.

It would seem as if the physical shock and pain of his attempted suicide, instead of injuring had on the contrary, acted as a tonic upon the moral stamina of the man. From the moment that he left his sofa he was to all outward appearances a changed individual. Whereas of late months, he had been morose and abstracted, gloomy, surly, and unsociable, he suddenly developed traits of quiet wit, constant good humour, charming affability, and such a desire for the companionship of his fellow creatures that it was not long before he attained the, perhaps scarcely enviable position of the most popular guest in the hotel.

He and his wife from this date, were constantly seen in each other's society, a fact in itself enough to strike those who knew him and the circumstances of his marriage with considerable wonder. She, poor soul, was consequently beaming with happiness. There were more than a few who were heard at this period of her existence, to call Lady Martinworth actually good-looking, which shows what a contented mind can sometimes do for the improvement of homely features.

Pearl and de Güldenfeldt would, in their walks and expeditions, frequently run across the Martinworth couple apparently on the most excellent conjugal terms. They would stop and talk for a few minutes, and the meetings would pass off naturally and without unpleasantness. De Güldenfeldt would, nevertheless, give a sigh of relief each time these encounters were safely accomplished, for with the appearance in the distance of Martinworth and his wife, Mrs. Nugent would turn white and dismayed, and while clutching nervously at her fiancé's arm, her breath would come and go in short, quick gasps.

No sooner, however, was she actually in Lord Martinworth's presence than these signs of distress would disappear, and Pearl would behave with as much sang froid as any other woman of the world placed in similar circumstances. Indeed, it was an intense satisfaction to judge with her own eyes that, in spite of de Güldenfeldt's dreary prognostications, and indeed, in spite of her own personal fears, there now seemed no ground for their former gloomy apprehensions.

Lord Martinworth's condition was certainly, as far as she could judge, absolutely normal. Realising this, it was perhaps hardly a matter for wonder that Mrs. Nugent felt slightly humiliated that so much wasted sympathy, such heart-rending remorse, had been conferred on one who, from all outward appearances, neither needed nor seemingly expected further consideration than is usually bestowed on a fellow creature temporarily incapacitated or indisposed.

She could not but appreciate--though once again she experienced a faint surprise--Martinworth's tact and delicacy in making no attempt to thrust himself into her presence. He had not called either before or since what was now generally spoken of as his "accident," and in recalling the dread she experienced when she first heard of his expected arrival at Chuzenji, of her fear of constant importunities, frequent visits, vain protestations, Pearl could not but smile--rather drearily and cynically, it is true--at these apprehensions, apparently so entirely uncalled-for, and premature.

Thus were the fears of all repressed and allayed. Lord Martinworth, as was only right and proper, devoted himself to his wife. Monsieur de Güldenfeldt was seldom absent from Mrs. Nugent's side, and Sir Ralph Nicholson, after a laughing remonstrance on Amy's part, at what she declared was a far too premature exhibition of masculine appropriation, was happy once more in the undisputed society of the girl he was to marry. The quiet every-day life, the innocent, healthy out-door pleasures of Chuzenji, pursued their natural and their agreeable course. Everyone seemed contented and at ease. There were no disputes, no excitements, no disturbances, and probably matters would have continued thus satisfactorily till the end of the season had it not been that one member of the little community was obliged to acknowledge that delicious dallying through those long, lovely summer days, and the enjoyment of charming society and the peaceful pleasures of the country were, alas! not the only ingredients that constituted life.

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's official duties called him to the Capital.

He parted from Pearl with a lingering regret, tempered with an anxiety he did not attempt to conceal. At the moment of his departure, all his former fears of Martinworth which had been lying dormant for so many weeks were renewed, and the knowledge that he was leaving his future wife alone and unprotected induced him once more to urge upon her a temporary absence from Chuzenji. She, however, definitely refused to contemplate his proposal, and nothing he could say would move her from her decision. De Güldenfeldt was offered instead, one sole consolation. On the eve of his departure, he at last succeeded in extracting from Pearl a reluctant promise that their marriage should take place shortly after the general return to Tokyo. This concession had, to a certain extent, relieved de Güldenfeldt's mind, for it was the first time since their engagement that Pearl--in spite of his many attempts--had allowed him to touch on the all-important subject of the date of their marriage.

Mrs. Nugent was wise enough to understand that it was necessary to concede something. She could not for ever be refusing her lover's every suggestion, every wish, and she reassured herself with the thought that it was now but the end of August. The middle of October still seemed to her a very long way off. Much might happen before then.

And so Stanislas rode off down the pass, partially consoled. It was only Pearl watching his vanishing figure from the tea-house to which she had accompanied him, who once more found herself recalling with a sickening dread that threatening look which for so long had haunted her nights and embittered her days.

For even as Pearl watched her lover from afar guiding his horse down the zigzag path, she felt again that strange feeling of coming evil that assailed her when de Güldenfeldt had proposed to her under the shadow of the Shogun's tomb. It attacked her now with renewed force. And some Power, which she could not explain, induced her to cry his name aloud.

He heard her, and turned in his saddle. Her tall figure, clad in a white gown, stood out clearly against a background of dark pines. Her arms were stretched towards him, and even at that distance he could distinguish the general fear and unrest enveloping her person.

"Stanislas," she cried, "come back to me. I want you."

He put his horse to a canter, and was soon by her side.

"What is it, my darling?" he said dismounting, and going up to her he took her two hands in his, and gazed steadily into her face.

"Stanislas," she whispered,--and she put her arms round his neck, hiding her head on his breast,--"forgive me, dear, for calling you back. But I felt so sad, so lonely, so frightened, and I wanted to tell you before you left how much--how very, very grateful I am, for all your goodness to me. I have never told you this before, Stanislas. But I felt I could not let you go without assuring you that I will try to prove my gratitude by being a good wife to you. I will indeed. No one has ever been so kind to me as you have been. No one has been so gentle, so tender, so forbearing. And yet I know I have often been trying, capricious, unreasonable. I have rewarded you but badly, darling, for all your kindness--your great goodness to me. Do you think me very horrid, Stanislas?" and she looked up at him, her lovely eyes clouded with tears.

It is unnecessary to give Monsieur de Güldenfeldt's reply to this question.

Once more he rode down the path, his face aglow and his heart lighter than he had felt it for many weeks past. Whilst Pearl, sad and sorry, wended her way slowly home, and throwing herself on her knees by the side of her bed, burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping.

It was in this melancholy condition that Rosina found her half-an-hour later. Mrs. Rawlinson asked no questions. But she took her cousin in her arms, and kissed and soothed her, and stroked the tight little auburn curls that since Pearl's illness had taken the place of the magnificent tresses for which she had once been famous. She knew well enough what was troubling Pearl, for ever since her husband had opened her eyes, she for weeks had silently watched the struggle which she saw was being fought out within her cousin's breast. She deeply pitied her, but she understood that she could not force her confidence--that she must wait for her to speak. And now at length the moment had come. Ere long Pearl had unburdened her whole soul to the friend who had never proved her false. She told her cousin everything. Nothing was left unconfessed, from the moment that Lord Martinworth had once more crossed her path, to her parting that day with Stanislas de Güldenfeldt.

And when she had finished a long silence ensued between the two women, for Rosina knew not what comfort to hold forth.

Pearl had shed all her tears, and with hands crossed upon her knees was gazing out with mournful eyes at the distant mountains and the blue, sunlit lake.

At last she spoke again in short sharp sentences. "Tell me, Rosina," she said, "what am I to do? How am I to marry Stanislas? I do not love him. I can never love him. I have tried so hard, and at one time when he asked me again I thought it would be so easy. Why do I not care for him? He is lovable enough, heaven knows! I dare not tell him that I cannot marry him. I dare not. I dare not. It would, I know, break his heart--that heart which is of pure gold. I had my chance to-day, when he insisted on my fixing the date of our marriage. But coward that I was, I left all that I ought to have said unsaid. Now I am in a worse position than ever. We are to be married in the middle of October, Oh! Rosina, what am I to do? Tell me, dearest, what am I to do?"

"There is," replied Mrs. Rawlinson, rising from her seat, and speaking very quietly, "only one thing, Pearl, to be done. If you feel like this you must discontinue the engagement."

"I cannot, I cannot! I tell you it will break his heart. It will kill him. He is not a boy, and I don't think he has ever cared very much for anyone before. He is sacrificing much, I know, to marry me. Oh, Rosina! if you only knew how I like him, how I respect--admire him, take pleasure in his society--everything, but--love him. If he would only be satisfied with these things. But once we are married he will, of course, look upon my love as his lawful right, and oh! how shall I be able to endure it? How shall I, in these circumstances--yielding nothing--giving nothing--be able to live with him?"

"My dear Pearl," replied Mrs. Rawlinson, taking her cousin's hand between her own, and looking at her steadily with her clear brown eyes, "it is no good going over the same ground time after time. You must realise one thing. You must either make up your mind to marry Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, or else you must break if off at once. Now, if you feel that this marriage is impossible for the reasons that you give, you must have the strength of mind to write immediately, and put an end to the matter. He will suffer, but people nowadays do not die of broken hearts. Whereas if you marry, not loving him--obliged to live in daily intercourse fulfilling your duty as a wife, your life will be a torture. He, of course, will soon understand what you are going through, and there will be unhappiness and misery on both sides. I repeat, if you feel certain, dear, that you can never give him that love that he will expect as his right, there is only one course to follow. It will, believe me, be kinder to him in the end. Stanislas de Güldenfeldt is not a man to be trifled with. He is not a man to rest satisfied with half measures. If I remained in your house a week, Pearl, I should only repeat the same thing. So good-bye, my darling. Be brave. Follow my advice, and write to him without further delay."

Mrs. Rawlinson pondered greatly as she wended her way homewards. She wondered much whether Pearl would be guided by her advice, and, knowing human nature fairly well, the conclusion at which she ultimately arrived was--that she would not.

"She will marry him," she thought, "and they will, I suppose, both be thoroughly wretched for the rest of their days. And I, who was so pleased at this match! Really, Pearl is very tiresome. Why on earth can't she be reasonably and comfortably in love like anybody else? But one can't alter one's disposition, I suppose. As things are, such a marriage for both parties concerned is simply suicidal. Dear me! how Tom will chuckle when I tell him of this interview."

And he certainly did.

"This comes," he said, "of your mixing yourself up in such affairs. Didn't I tell you you would burn your fingers? Didn't I tell you, that though obstinate enough on certain points, on matters connected with her heart Pearl never knew her own mind two days running? And didn't I tell you that marriage number two would probably prove as great a fiasco as marriage number one? Never mind, my dear, you will meet with your reward, for in less than a couple of years you will probably have the delightful excitement of all the scandal of another divorce, or at least a separation. De Güldenfeldt is not a man to stand any damned nonsense, I can tell you."

Certainly, Mr. Rawlinson was an extremely annoying, disagreeable sort of husband. Such was Rosina's decided, and perhaps justifiable opinion at that moment.

Meanwhile, with regard to the writing of the proposed letter of dismissal, Mrs. Rawlinson was perfectly correct in her surmises. It was--though often enough commenced--never accomplished. Day after day Mrs. Nugent would make up her mind to put an end to the existing state of things, and day after day matters remained exactly as they were. At last the time approached for the return of her future husband, and still the letter was unwritten. Pearl adopted the habit of indulging in long, solitary walks, and dejected rows on the lake, every day finding her more care-worn, paler and thinner, and Count Carlitti, who paid her many visits at this time, became more and more concerned about her state of health and loss of animation and good looks.

"I must tell you, mon ami," he said to Ralph in a moment of confidence, "I intended a week or two ago to declare myself. Because you know she is une ravissante et charmante femme. My heart did beat each time I did see her. Yes, I would have made her la Comtesse Carlitti. She was worthy of my name and title, and leetle fortune. But now, que voulez vous? her beauty fades. Every day it does vanish a leetle more, and perhaps--qui sait? one day she will become only a savage flower--no longer une rose, la reine des fleurs. So I have decided now, mon cher Nicholson, not to tell her of my honourable intentions. Do you not give me right?"

"Quite right," replied Ralph, "but I am sorry for her, poor thing. It will, you know, be a cruel disappointment."

Monsieur Carlitti, who was by no means the fool that some people gave him the credit for being, looked up sharply.

"Ah! farceur! now you do mock," he said. "I will no longer hesitate, but will ask her to-day. And to-morrow I will announce to you my wedding. Elle est adorable!"

"I do lofe you," he said to Pearl that afternoon, having to his great satisfaction found her alone in her little white drawing room. "I do lofe you excessivement. I have lofed you from the first day that I met you at la fête de la Légation de France. It will give me a happiness immense to make you la Comtesse Carlitti. I know that you are une divorcée. Mais n'importe, vous êtes si belle et si séduisante. And I do lofe you. That is enough. We shall make trés bon ménage. You will share with me my leetle fortune, and I likewise your fortune will participate with you. Un arrangement bien commode."

Pearl never for an instant doubted but that the arrangement would indeed be extremely convenient, especially for the male participator thereof, her fortune being at least ten times larger than that of her admirer.

"I will suicide myself," he said mournfully, after she in all gentleness, but with a smile in her eyes which she vainly tried to suppress, had refused the honour of this noble alliance; "I will burn myself the brain. Je suis trop malheureux. For I had said to myself, 'cette belle Madame Nugent is worthy of the ancient name of Carlitti, and of my leetle fortune.' And now you do me decline. You do say 'No.' So I will suicide myself. Yes, I will go on the lake, ce beau lac de Chuzenji, and you--cruel one--will never, never see me more."

Not much anxiety was experienced by Mrs. Nugent at these threats of her volatile and flighty adorer. To no one did she mention the details of this interview, or the melancholy result of Count Carlitti's matrimonial attempt. As for Ralph, he was by far too kind-hearted to think of putting his sanguine friend to the torture of answering painful questions.

Indeed, the unusual droop of the finely waxed and pointed moustache, the plaintive look in the soft, brown eyes--and the general limpness and depression that for two whole days enveloped the person of the ordinarily vivacious little man, told their own sad tale.

CHAPTER XIV.

A Bird of Ill Omen.

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, the subject of so much heart burning, was meanwhile, in the scorching heat of Tokyo, striving as speedily as possible to accomplish the business that had called him to the Capital. It was a tiresome affair that compelled appointments with Ministers and endless interviews with men of business, the latter frequently necessitating the presence of an interpreter--at the best of times a wearisome and tedious performance, and especially so when the thermometer marks, as it frequently did during that torrid summer--97° in the shade. In spite of his somewhat dreary occupations, there were many weary hours of enforced idleness, and the time had to be killed as best it could, a difficult operation with scarcely a creature--much less an acquaintance or a colleague--left in town.

Stanislas' love of reading and research seemed to be a thing of the past. His own life's drama struck him at this time as being so far more thrilling and absorbing than the perusal of any treatise or romance, or even the study of his favourite scientific authors who--until now--had proved the great resource and stand-by of his lonely hours. He no longer had taste for these former delights, and though a once beloved volume might be taken from the bookshelves adorned by the work of many an ancient and distinguished author, instead of being dipped into, studied, or perused, it would remain for hours unopened on his knees.

Thoughts of Pearl, plans for the future, hopes for the future and--on frequent occasions--fears for the future, engrossed instead his mind. Mrs. Nugent's recent and fairly constant fits of irritability had by no means escaped the observation of de Güldenfeldt. Though, so far, he had hardly succeeded in fathoming the true cause of this strange and uncomfortable deviation in a disposition which--he was wont to flatter himself--he had after three years' study thoroughly solved--he, nevertheless, genuinely lamented the existence of these--until now--concealed and undreamt-of traits of character. More than once had he been brought into intimate contact with these uncertain and capricious moods. More than once had he suffered from these fits of nervous excitement, indulged in by one whom he hitherto had considered not only the sweetest and the best, but, above all, an unusually just and reasonable specimen of her sex.

He at times consoled himself with the thought that once married, once leading the daily routine of a calm and settled existence--Pearl would regain that former buoyancy of spirits, that previous equanimity of temperament which in his eyes, had constituted the greater part of her fascination and her charm.

He felt he had indeed achieved much in getting fixed the approximate date of the wedding. He recalled the sweet face which he had kissed so ardently when Pearl had summoned him back on the mountain pass, and the delicious words of love and repentance that in the fulness of her heart, with her arms encircling his neck, she then had uttered,--and his pulses beat, and once more his heart throbbed with joyful anticipation at the thought of that happiness which--he flattered himself--must surely one day be his lot.

He longed with an indescribable longing to be back to her. And it was with genuine relief that he saw the termination of his business approaching, and knew that those dreary days of enforced absence from her side must soon be reckoned as among the dark chronicles of the past.

It was the beginning of September and a most unusual season for the visit of the ubiquitous globe-trotter. Stanislas was therefore considerably, but none the less most agreeably, surprised, when one morning, just at the time he was feeling his dullest and forlornest, a note was brought him from the Imperial Hotel, announcing the arrival--accompanied by a young son and daughter--of a former London friend, and a connection of his English mother's, a certain Mrs. Millward-Fraser.

"We arrived in Japan by the last 'Empress' a fortnight ago" she wrote, "and have since been hard at work doing the sights of this most fascinating city. We called at the Legation, but were told that you were ruralising in the hills. Now we hear that you have returned to Town, so we allow ourselves to hope that you will look in upon us one day soon. It will be so pleasant to meet again, and to talk over family news," etc., etc., etc.

Stanislas went promptly, that same day, to see his old friend. And an invitation to lunch at the Swedish Legation for the following morning was the outcome of the visit.

Mrs. Millward-Fraser had been reckoned a beauty in her day, and was still a very good looking woman. She was a widow, having lost her husband, an energetic and well-known M.P., a few years previously. Stanislas had known the family intimately during the years he was posted in London, and in those days was not only a valued friend of the elders, but an equal favourite with both boy and girl. Since those jolly days of romps and fun, Alfred, the son, had emerged from Eton a cheerful, fairly well mannered, and fairly well educated, though somewhat raw stripling--while the daughter Muriel had developed into a bright and extremely pretty young woman, of which beauty she had indeed given full promise in her juvenile days.

"You bring it forcibly before my mind into what a regular old buffer I am degenerating," de Güldenfeldt remarked to the latter as they strolled into lunch, "and yet it only seems the other day since I nursed you on my knee."

"Nevertheless, it is ten years ago at the very least," laughed the girl. "I am seventeen now, and I am firmly convinced that I never permitted such a liberty after the age of seven or eight."

"And a nice fat lump you must have been even at that age. I pity poor cousin Stanny if he often indulged in the amusement of dancing you up and down on his knee," chaffed young Millward-Fraser, with brotherly politeness and candour.

"Alfred, it was impressed upon our minds by Mamma when we were children that personal remarks were considered particularly odious," retorted his sister. "Do you think me so very fat, cousin Stanislas? Ally is always teasing me, and laughing at me for being what he calls 'rotund.'"

Stanislas, thus appealed to, looked admiringly at the pretty plump girl beside him and laughed.

"You are perfectly enormous," he said; "a female Tichborne in fact. Fortunately there are, however, many men who, like myself, admire 'a little plump partridge.' Wait till you see Carlitti. He'll not hesitate long in falling a slave to your charms."

"Who is Carlitti?" enquired Mrs. Millward-Frazer.

"Count Carlitti is a colleague of mine. A dear fellow, and an immense admirer of your sex, and extremely susceptible in consequence. He is bound to lose his heart to Muriel, when he meets you all, as he will no doubt do later, at Chuzenji."

"Talking of hearts reminds me, Muriel, that we have forgotten the fortune-teller. You know we arranged to go there to-day," exclaimed Alfred.

"My dear children! such nonsense. He will only cram your head with fables," remonstrated Mrs. Millward-Fraser.

"Dearest mother, we have come here to study the habits and customs of the country. No one would dream of leaving Japan without visiting one of its famous soothsayers. Would they, cousin Stan?"

"I blush to confess, Muriel, that during all the years I have lived in the East I have never, so far, penetrated into the sacred precincts of a fortune-teller's house," replied de Güldenfeldt as they seated themselves on the verandah, where coffee was served. "But then, you know, it is always the G.T.'s who see and do everything. We poor ignorant residents are very much behind the times, and are unacquainted with half the sights of Tokyo."

"Better late than never," said Muriel. "Come with us to-day. They are really marvellous people, you know. I have the address of a particularly clever one, much consulted by the Japanese."

"Isn't it rather hot for such exciting interviews?" feebly remonstrated Stanislas, knowing all the time that when once Miss Muriel took it into her pretty head to command, the sole thing was to surrender with a good grace. So, without further discussion, the carriage was promptly ordered.

In spite of the heat the young people were in the highest spirits during their drive, seeming greatly to enjoy the brightness and animation of the crowded streets, as the betto, [16] with his peculiar warning cry, cleared the way which led to the picturesque suburbs of the city. It was with regret when, after over an hour's transit, the carriage stopped before a black wooden ancient gateway, and they knew that they had arrived at the entrance to the Ninso mi's [17] domain.

"I feel as if I were leaving the Occidental, the modern existence behind me. It is all so old-world and weird," whispered Muriel to her mother, as they proceeded from under the gateway and entered the quaint, well-kept garden.

It was a lovely, poetical little garden, restful and secluded. Its many narrow paths were paved with grey pebbles, and in the centre of a plot of bright green turf was a miniature lake or pond edged with divers shrubs of various sizes and shapes. Uprising from the lake was a tiny island, on which flourished equally tiny and twisted maple, plum and cherry trees, shrined by one gnarled and quaint shaped pine, many centuries old. Floating on the surface of the little pond, and swaying gracefully in the summer breeze, were regal lotus plants, some bearing, amidst their glossy cup-shaped leaves, giant flowers of soft rose-pink, while other plants were crowned with marvellous white blossoms, standing erect on their long stems.

August is the month in which the lotus plants are in full and glorious flower, and the travellers were in raptures at the richness of growth, their delicate loveliness, as their eyes rested on this entrancing and, to them, unknown sight. The party lingered long on the large flat stones that forming a natural bridge, traversed the pond, gazing with unbounded admiration at these unrivalled bell-shaped flowers. The colossal leaves of green almost as striking as the lovely blossoms themselves, were full to overflowing of glistening dewdrops, that sparkled like diamonds in the afternoon sun, as the plants swayed gracefully above the water with every breath of the quiet air.

The Millward-Frazer family at length tore themselves away from admiring these lovely blossoms and left the garden. The party passed through the grotesquely carved porch of the old-fashioned building, with its many gabled, peaked Chinese roof, and were received by a servant, who, after greeting them kneeling and with her forehead touching the threshold of the doorway, rose, assisted in taking off their shoes, and finally ushered them into a fairly sized Japanese room. The shoji were wide open, acting as a simple frame to the picturesque garden without, its gnarled and twisted trees, its ancient stones and lanterns, and its pond of slumbering lotus blooms.

In the middle of the matted room, which--with the exception of the little shrine before which the evening and morning prayers are offered up--was almost devoid of furniture, was a square lacquer table that rose about a couple of feet from the floor, and on which was piled a heap of ancient volumes. Before the table, with huge horn spectacles perched on his nose, and with a glistening and entirely shaven pate, was squatting on his heels, a wrinkled and solemn looking Bonze of benign countenance, holding upright in his hand a partly opened fan. He was adorned in the richest vestments of purple silk, which stuck out in stiff, straight lines around his bending body.

As each of the visitors filed in, filling the little room, the old priest from behind his great round spectacles examined them from head to foot with the piercing eye of an eagle. His glance finally fell and rested on the interpreter of the Legation, a young man whom Stanislas had recently appointed to fill the post left empty by poor Suzuki's tragic death.

From studying the impassive face of Ito, the old man's eyes travelled to de Güldenfeldt, on whom they remained, though the latter made vain attempts to keep himself as far as possible in the background.

The Bonze, never once taking his eyes from Stanislas, murmured something to Ito in a low and impressive manner.

"The Ninsomi-san says he wishes to interview you first," Ito said, turning to his master. "He has something of the utmost importance to say to you."

"Nonsense," replied de Güldenfeldt impatiently. "He can have absolutely nothing to say. Why, it is impossible for him to know even who I am. Besides, I pay no attention to such things, and have no intention whatsoever of having my fortune told. Miss Millward-Fraser wishes to hear her fate. He will speak to her."

The message was transmitted, and the old man, mournfully nodding his head, said the Danna sama [18] should be obeyed; but that later he would himself be the first to regret the unnecessary delay. He begged humbly to be allowed to say what he had to say to the Danna sama immediately after he had spoken to the O' Fo-sama. [19]

Muriel thereupon knelt on the floor in front of the table, and the old Seer, wrinkling up his face and closing his narrow eyes, devoid of eyelashes, mumbled and muttered incantations between his toothless lips. She held out the palm of her hand. He did not even glance at it, but lifting the divining rods reverentially and solemnly to his forehead, he for a moment leant his forehead in deep thought on-to the table, always muttering and groaning to himself. After this performance he slowly raised his bald old head looking at Muriel with a quick and comprehensive glance. He next enquired her age, and reckoning by the Japanese signs of the Zodiac, he parted the divining rods into two bundles, then taking up the magnifying glass, he examined intently the lines of the face. So intently and so long indeed did he gaze as to considerably embarrass poor Muriel, who blushed furiously under this prolonged examination of her features. He seemed apparently satisfied with this inspection, for a grim smile gleamed from his cunning old eyes, and he proceeded to count the number of twigs in each of the already separated packets of divining rods. Then once more he took the magnifying glass, and carefully re-examining her face he spoke, pausing every now and then to allow the interpreter to translate his prophecies.