Front matter (continued 5)

"You have," he mumbled in a low monotone, interspersed with various "oh's" and "ah's," and a curious hissing sound between the wrinkled lips, "you have crossed many miles of water"--("I could have told you that," whispered Alfred Millward-Fraser, "without having the honour of being a Japanese soothsayer")--"but you will not cross it again for many months, and perhaps years."--("Why, we are returning home in three months," continued the irrepressible youth.)--"In a few days you will travel to a country high in the hills, a beautiful fertile country, where there is much water and beautiful vegetation, but a dangerous and difficult journey over rocks and fallen trees and broken bridges. You will meet a male, a stranger, on the road, and before two months have passed and gone, you will have told that man that you will become his wife. The ninth month and the tenth month of this year of Meiji will be your most fortunate months. They will bring you much happiness. You will have a long and happy and healthy life, for your pretty face is likewise a lucky face, and much money and many children and good fortune will be your lot. I have spoken."

The young girl's eyes were sparkling with excitement and merriment as she rose from her lowly seat.

"How wonderful it is," she exclaimed. "I am actually to meet my fate in a few days. Do you hear, Ally? you, who are always scoffing and telling me I shall never succeed in securing a husband."

"Bosh! I bet you ten dollars, Muriel, it is all humbug," said Alfred, boy-like, ashamed to show how much impressed he was.

"No doubt. But what delightful humbug, nevertheless. Now, Cousin Stanny, it is your turn. He is looking at you all the time. He evidently finds you by far the most interesting member of the party. I am sure I have suffered by this absorbing interest, and that he has cut my fortune short in consequence."

"Very well, to please you, Muriel," replied de Güldenfeldt with a smile. "But pray don't run away with the notion that I for one instant believe in this nonsense. Alfred is right. It is all humbug from beginning to end. I sacrifice myself on the sole condition that your mother promises to be the next victim."

Mrs. Millward-Fraser smiled rather sadly and shook her head. "I live in the past, not in the future," she said, as de Güldenfeldt, folding up his long legs as best he could, squatted down in front of the little table, and prepared himself to be scrutinized.

This time, however, the Seer employed neither magnifying glass nor divining rods. He looked steadily at Stanislas for a few minutes with his penetrating black eyes. Then turning to the interpreter he spoke rapidly, in a low sing-song voice, charging his monologue with many ominous shakings of the head, and with dreary groans and sighs.

"Well, Ito, what does he say?" asked de Güldenfeldt, when the old man, ceasing to speak, leant his head on the table in a state of breathless exhaustion. The interpreter hesitated.

"Pardon me, your Excellency, but he says many bad, many false things. Do you wish me to repeat them?"

"Certainly," and de Güldenfeldt laughed rather uneasily, "let us hear everything. Keep nothing from me, false or true, good or bad."

"In what he says there is no good, no truth, Excellency. It is all bad, all false words. He says that you must hasten away up into the hills. He says the wind is rising, that it is already beginning to sing in the trees, and that there will be a great and terrible storm. The storm in the mountains will be a raging tempest, very, very dreadful and destructive. He says that one whom you love will be in the midst of it, at the mercy of the wind and of the waves, and what is worse, at the mercy of a man who is mad, of a man who hates you with a great and bitter hatred. You must go to her, Excellency, he says, if you ever wish to again see the honourable and gracious lady whom you love. Every moment is precious. There is not a minute to be lost, you must hasten--hasten. Soon it may be too late. For the wind is already beginning to sing drearily in the eaves of the house, and the raindrops are already overflowing from the cups of the lotus leaves."

And truly, as Ito spoke, a violent gust of wind shook the woodwork of the little house, and huge rain drops splashed into the lake outside.

Stanislas had turned pallid at Ito's interpretation of the old soothsayer's mumbled words. For, in spite of all his former professions of incredulity, it was impossible not to be strangely and alarmingly impressed at the unhappy forebodings contained in this ominous prophecy.

The mountains--the woman he loved--the madman, what and who else could they mean but Chuzenji--Pearl--Martinworth? He did not pause to ask himself how the old Bonze, living buried in his little wooden house, miles away from any European, could have obtained knowledge of who he was, or of his intimate concerns. There was a mystery, a weirdness in the whole strange proceedings, that baffled investigation, or defied analysis. Perhaps at some future time he would try and solve the problem. But for the present he was consumed with an unquestionable and confident belief that the Seer's warning permitted of no discussion--that what he foretold was indeed occurring or about to occur, and that Pearl, the being whom he loved most on earth, was in some great danger, was helpless and alone, and what was more, was needing him.

A merciful Providence in the form of a giddy girl had guided his footsteps to this distant neighbourhood and house. By these unforeseen and unexpected means he had been warned of this danger threatening the woman who was to be his wife. And not for one instant did Stanislas, the contemptuous sceptic of half an hour ago--the practical product of a practical age--hesitate, or think of ignoring this warning delivered in so unusual a manner, from so unthought-of and so strange a quarter.

"Ask him," he said to Ito, "if the danger is imminent, and if it can by any possible means be averted?"

Ito put the question.

"He says, Excellency, that you must hasten, hasten with all possible speed if you wish to see the lady again. But he will not, he says--he cannot, say more."

Stanislas glanced at his watch. It was past five o'clock.

"Ito," he said, "is there another train to Nikko to-night?"

"No Excellency, the last one left at three o'clock."

"But there is one I know shortly for Utsunomiya. I will take that, sleep the night there, and get up to Chuzenji early to-morrow. Thank God! I am near the station here. Ito, you will take these ladies and this gentleman back to the hotel, go to the Legation, get me some clothes, and follow me by the first train to-morrow. Now call me a 'ricksha at once. I have just time to catch the train."

The Millward-Frasers had been silent and inactive, but deeply interested and distressed spectators of this scene. They saw that their friend, restrained and composed though he was in manner, was possessed not only with the very greatest anxiety, but likewise with an overwhelming dread. They longed to be of help to him, but knew not how.

He turned to the elder lady, "You will forgive me," he said, "leaving you thus unceremoniously. But I look upon that old man's words as a warning sent from heaven. I feel that not only are they not to be ignored, but that they must be obeyed. And what is more, obeyed without delay. One whom I love, who is to be my wife in a few months time, is--according to this old man--in imminent danger, and I must reach her, and go to her assistance as speedily as lies in my power. Listen to the wind and rain! Good God! the first part of his prophecy is already coming true."

"Can we help you, dear friend? Do anything for you at the Legation? Give any message?" asked Mrs. Millward-Fraser with tears of sympathy in her eyes.

"You can do nothing, dear Mrs. Millward-Fraser, but pray for me in this the moment of the greatest distress, the greatest agony of my life. Stay, I will on second thoughts, take the carriage. It is quicker, and the rain is coming down in torrents. I will send it back to you, and also Ito, who will return and see you safely home. Adieu!"

And he was gone!

CHAPTER XV.

'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis.

It was two or three days before Monsieur de Güldenfeldt's proposed return. And Pearl knew that if her letter of rupture was to be sent at all it was necessary to write it without further delay.

For over an hour she had been sitting at her writing table with the blank paper before her. The atmosphere was heavy and close, signs of a coming storm. Her head was aching, and her sight dimmed with the pain.

Finally, after merely inscribing a few words, she impatiently threw down her pen, and, pushing the writing materials aside, she rose from her seat.

"There will be ample time to catch the post when I come in," she thought. "My head is splitting. I shall die if I don't have some air."

The sun was covered, but this by no means prevented the heat from being stifling as Pearl plodded along the path that overhung the lake. Her feet lagged somewhat, but her thoughts on the contrary, followed each other in rapid succession, and as she trudged through the undergrowth she found herself recalling many incidents of her past life. That unaccountable feeling of misery and depression, that so often weighs down the spirits before the coming of a typhoon, possessed Mrs. Nugent this afternoon. This sentiment of melancholy did not strike her as anything out of the way, for it was indeed many a long day since Pearl had known what it was to feel really happy or light-hearted. She found her eyes filling with tears of self-pity as she walked to the border of the lake, and leaning against a tree, gazed down sadly into its depths.

After all, she drearily thought, what a long incessant struggle had been her life. What a small, what a very small iota of happiness had fallen to her lot. Pearl buried her face in her hands, and wondered if, in any way, she had brought these misfortunes on herself--if, indeed, it had been through any fault of her own that everyone whom she had trusted and loved had proved false in the end, that everything she had believed in had eventually turned to ashes in her hands.

She thought of herself at the time of her marriage--bright, and sunny, and single-hearted, believing in everybody who was kind to her and in everything that pleased her. She remembered how this credulity, this innocent faith in all that was best in human nature, had blindly centred itself in the husband whose utter worthlessness, before many months were passed, was the cause of a cruel awakening from this beautiful dream of pure belief, resulting in disillusion, and in a bitter lesson thoroughly learnt.

She recalled the wretched years that followed this discovery of Mr. Norrywood's real disposition. Then she thought of Martinworth, and how he had come into her life, to transform its misery into an unsatisfied, restless excitement, which, at the time, she blindly deceived herself was happiness. From Martinworth her thoughts turned to the sweet widowed mother, who had died before she left school, but whose example and teaching had remained implanted in her mind, and was the means of keeping her honest and pure through many a bitter moment of trial and temptation. Pearl loved to think of her mother. For long she let her thoughts linger round this guardian angel of her youth. It was a relief to turn them away from herself, and to recall that tall, stately figure, with the large grey eyes, so like her own, the soft voice, and the grave, sweet smile.

She sat down on a moss-grown boulder, and dwelt tenderly on all the past incidents of her merry childhood, and trusting, early girlhood. And when at length she rose, and once more continued her walk, Pearl Nugent's thoughts had taken a new and a happier turn.

She wandered on, lingering here and there, and occasionally plucking some of the many ferns and wild flowers that grew by the path. Her eyes travelled upwards and alighted, at some distance above her, upon a plant she had long desired, a magnificent specimen of the Osmunda regina. Pearl paused in her walk, and found herself speculating as to how greatly this giant fern would adorn her rockery, one of the many beauties of her lovely garden. Finally, with some difficulty, she succeeded in clambering up the steep upright bank, and regardless of the rising wind and the rain that now began to fall, she attempted to loosen the plant, and, for want of a better instrument, commenced digging with her fingers at the roots.

Mrs. Nugent little knew that she had a solitary but interested spectator of her proceedings. Martinworth, in his boat on the lake, had caught the flutter of a white dress through the trees, and, with his keen sight, it did not take him long to distinguish that the owner of the dress was Pearl. He shipped his oars, and bending forward watched with absorption the efforts to uproot the fern. He had not long been thus silently employed when, to his astonishment and dismay, he saw her jerk suddenly backwards, and, sliding rapidly down the bank, disappear from view in a cloud of earth and stones.

The plant that at one time seemed so firmly and obstinately embedded in the ground had, without warning, become loosened, and Pearl, in giving one final pull, found herself thrown with violence and unexpected impetus upon the path.

Her fall was not from any great height. Though dazed for a minute by the suddenness of her collapse, she was preparing to rise from her lowly position when, in attempting to stand, a sharp pain in her right ankle was an unmistakeable and alarming proof that her foot was sprained. With dismay and a smothered cry she fell back again on the ground.

To make matters worse, the wind was rising every minute, and the rain, increasing in force, was penetrating the foliage overhead. Pearl made a supreme effort to drag herself up by catching at the branches and the brushwood, but the pain of her foot was so intense that, greatly to her annoyance, she found herself forced to desist from her efforts.

The path was an unfrequented one. And it was hardly a consoling thought that a night spent in a dripping wood, with a possible typhoon thrown in for company, was likely to prove the result of her adventure. Indeed, this anticipation was so little congenial to Pearl that she once more made a final effort to rise, the consequence being that, certainly for a minute or two, she lost consciousness from the pain.

She was aroused from this partial lethargy by a rustling of the leaves, and the next minute the form of Lord Martinworth emerged from behind the trees.

On any other occasion Martinworth's sudden appearance would have filled Mrs. Nugent with the greatest dread and consternation. Her present position was, however, proving so extremely unpleasant that, forgetting all fears and past disagreeableness, she found herself, on the contrary, hailing his unexpected arrival on the scene with intense relief.

"Thank goodness! you have come," she exclaimed, as her face brightened. "I have been very unfortunate, and in falling have sprained my ankle. I am quite helpless, and unable to move."

Lord Martinworth gazed down at the recumbent form for a few seconds in silence. Then he said:

"You seem indeed to be in a sorry plight. The only thing I can suggest is that I should carry you to my boat. I have got it moored close by," and, without waiting for a reply, he stooped down and gently lifted her in his arms. "I will row you home," he added. "Put your arms round my neck," and Pearl found herself obediently following his directions.

It was with considerable difficulty, hampered as he was by a burden by no means slight, that Martinworth succeeded in threading his way through the undergrowth. The climb down the steep uneven bank was long and most laborious.

He was breathless when he at length deposited Pearl by the edge of the lake.

"I must wait a moment," he panted, "before I attempt to lift you into the boat. The lake is fearfully rough, and my little cockleshell is not made for bad weather. We shall have to keep by the shore. You are not afraid?" and he looked down at her with a strange light in his eyes.

Pearl hesitated a moment.

"No," she said at last, "I don't think I am afraid, at least, not very much. But I want to get home as soon as possible. I have to write a letter that must absolutely go by this evening's post."

Lord Martinworth looked at her fixedly, but said nothing. And once more he stooped down and lifted her in his arms.

It was no easy matter to place Pearl into the little outrigger which was dancing like a cork on the water, that from a calm and sunny lake had in so short a time become transformed into a raging sea. Twice he missed his footing and nearly fell, and twice he recovered himself, while Pearl clung tightly to him, and felt his heart beating against her own. The rain had ceased for the moment, but the wind raged in greater fury than ever, and it was already getting dusk. Lord Martinworth's third effort, however, proved successful. Depositing Pearl in the stern of the boat, he took off his coat and made a cushion for the injured foot.

"It will be an endless, a terrible business getting back," he said, "Don't stir. For as it is, it will be all I can do to keep the boat from upsetting. Steer as near the shore as you can."

Pearl silently obeyed his directions, while Lord Martinworth worked manfully at the sculls.

The boat, as he truly said, was not intended for rough weather. Pearl soon realised this fact as it danced up and down, backwards and forwards, and the water came dashing over bow and stern.

At first the pair were silent, for all Martinworth's breath was required for the effort of sculling against the wind. But at last, during a lull in the storm, his eyes wandered to his companion's face and remained fixed there with a steadiness of gaze which Pearl found anything but reassuring.

"The wind is abating," he finally said. "It is fortunate, as I wish to ask you something, Pearl."

Mrs. Nugent did not reply, but her heart sank within her.

For some moments Lord Martinworth still rowed on, while it seemed as if his words were likely to be verified. Though the roughness of the water still tossed the helpless little boat, the wind had temporarily almost dropped.

"We can drift in safety, now," he said, and shipping his oars, he leant toward Pearl.

"Pearl," he said very gently, "I want you to be true. I want you to frankly answer one or two questions which, considering our former friendship, I consider I have more than a right to ask. First of all," and he paused a moment, "I wish to know, do you still love me, Pearl?"

The question came abruptly. Mrs. Nugent was suffering considerable pain, and was feeling very angry and rather frightened. She for a moment forgot the past,--the devoted intercourse of former years--everything but the present trying situation,--and her answer without hesitation was sharp and hard.

"You have no right whatsoever to ask me such a question. And you know it. It is an action unworthy of you, to take advantage of my helplessness, to place me in such an extremely unpleasant position. But as you have thought fit to question me, I will not be such a coward as to shirk the answer. No, Dick, I certainly do not care for you any longer. All that is passed. My sentiments have--have--changed. I can only thank God that all that folly is over."

The words had hardly left Pearl's mouth before she bitterly regretted them. She knew they were harsh and cruel, and she was grieved indeed when she saw the change that came over Lord Martinworth's face that she had let her sharp tongue and irritable temper get the better of her.

He winced as if she had struck him, and his cheeks turned white beneath the sunburn.

"Thank you," he replied with bitterness. "You are certainly carrying out my request to the letter, and are frank enough. So this is the reward for the devotion of years. Well! your answer explains many things," he added musingly. "First of all I learn, that not only do you not love me now, but what is more, that you never really cared for me, never loved me as I loved you. I was a blind fool not to have understood that fact many years ago. You gave me proofs enough, God knows."

"I beg," retorted Pearl, but in a gentler tone, "that you will not discuss this question, Dick. Did you not promise to bury what has gone? Why move these gravestones of the past? Will you not continue rowing? The wind is rising again. I have nothing on but this thin, white gown, and I am cold and very anxious to get home."

"No," answered Martinworth sternly, "I will not go on rowing for the present. When I made that promise the situation was entirely different. You were not then--then----I have another question still to ask. May I request that you will give me as frank a reply to my second question as you did to my first?"

Mrs. Nugent remained silent. She shivered and looked anxiously towards the fast darkening shore.

"I am really sorry to inconvenience you," continued her companion, "but it is absolutely necessary for the purpose that I have in view that these questions should be answered clearly, frankly, and without delay. In fact it entirely depends on the nature of the replies I receive whether I carry out that purpose or not."

"I don't know what you are talking about," replied Pearl petulantly. "I am miserably cold and wet. My foot is paining me very much. Only get me home, and I will answer as many questions as you please."

"Pardon me. One more question at least must be answered now. But I will not delay you long. Pearl Norrywood"--he unconsciously used her former name--"as you one day expect to stand before the Throne, tell me the truth. I must--I will know the truth. Are you or are you not engaged to be married to de Güldenfeldt?"

As Martinworth uttered these words he leant further forward, gazing intently at Pearl.

Mrs. Nugent did not respond. She flushed, her eyes falling beneath her companion's penetrating glance. Fortunate indeed that she averted them for a time. Thus for a short period, was she saved the sight of the wildness of expression that slowly crept over the face of her companion, as the question brought forth no immediate reply.

Mrs. Nugent continued silent. It was not from any desire to prevaricate or to avoid telling the necessary truth that she hesitated. But at the moment that the question was asked, so sternly and so impressively, it struck her like a blow how very different might have been the answer if her letter to de Güldenfeldt had been written and despatched, instead of being still to write. She began to realise, to dread, that this one act of procrastination--vacillation--weakness of mind--whatever it might be called--was likely to be productive of calamitous results, feared and foreseen for weeks.

As this thought passed through her mind she instinctively raised her eyes to Martinworth's face. That one glance was sufficient to impress on her the certainty that she was in the presence, not only of a madman, but of one who, with the premeditation, vindictiveness and ferocity of his type, was she was firmly convinced, contemplating her speedy destruction.

Strange to say, the conviction of this fact caused her no immediate terror. Though of a naturally timid and nervous temperament, Pearl, at this moment of terrible and full assurance, felt none of those depressing fears that had assailed her of late with such crushing and ceaseless persistency. She knew now, that from the moment she had seen that look in Martinworth's eyes weeks ago, she had been preparing herself for that fate which she had then told herself must surely one day overtake her. She was alone on a stormy lake with a man no longer master of himself or of his actions. The wind, which had risen again, was tearing round in circles, the rain was dashing in their faces, and the little boat was helplessly tossing first one side and then the other. She looked up and saw the angry heavens, she looked down and saw the angry waters, she looked before her and saw what was far more terrible than either--the angry eyes, wild and threatening, fixed upon her face. And yet Pearl felt no fear. Not for one moment did she contemplate the thought of hiding the truth by vain subterfuges, of cloaking it by prevarications. She knew that in time, all in good time, an answer must be given. And she likewise knew that that answer would seal her fate. She only wanted a short moment, a little space to think. Not to weep over herself or bemoan her own destiny, for an overwhelming pity for the man before her, a deep compassion, took the place in Pearl's breast, for the time being, of all natural feelings of terror and dismay. It was her firm conviction that this man, who had once been her tender and adoring lover, was in a short space of time about to become her assassin, and she asked herself, as she gazed into his terrible face, what must not have been his sufferings of late, that a transformation such as this should have taken place in the once gentle, well-balanced and affectionate nature. As Pearl sat there, looking silently and unflinchingly into those eyes, her individuality for the moment seemed merged into Martinworth's. Now for the first time did she truly realise the misery and the despair that had gripped his soul when, without a murmur, that evening in Tokyo he had left her, resigning all claim upon her for ever. The strain caused by this voluntary renunciation of the desire of years had, she knew well, proved too great for the highly-strung, nervous disposition, and the will, once under such calm self-control, the brain, once so superior, had ultimately collapsed under this last final effort of supreme self-denial.

This tragic and undoubtable fact was brought vividly before her as she continued to gaze back into those eyes. She had retained her own self-respect, she had acted up to the principles of her youth, she had kept intact the promise she had made--but--but--on the other side, she had broken a heart, she had ruined a happy and a useful life, and above all--she had unwittingly driven a man mad for love of her! And in agony of mind, Pearl asked herself the question, had she done right? Oh! had she done right?

And all this time, while Lord Martinworth's inquiry remained unanswered, his face was growing more terrible, the steely blue eyes more bloodshot.

"Answer me," he said, and he leant forward and caught her by the wrist. "Are you engaged to de Güldenfeldt? Do you hear me, Pearl? Answer me!"

At the contact of his hand on her wrist, Pearl drew back and shuddered. She at last felt her nerves giving way under the tension. And she was aware that all feelings of self-reproach, regret, and compassion were becoming submerged in a more natural sentiment--that of genuine terror for her own safety. She looked despairingly around her, and saw with horror and dismay that they were drifting towards the river that led to the waterfall. The current was swift and strong at that place, and she well knew that if Martinworth did not at once take the oars it would merely be a matter of minutes before they were dashed over the brink into eternity! The knowledge flashed upon her as they sped nearer and nearer to the fatal spot that this was the end that from the moment he had lifted her into his boat he had decided upon. Again Pearl shuddered, as her eyes fled once more to his face, and she knew that further delay was impossible, and that she must speak.

"Dick," she replied, "you will kill me. I know it. I read your intention in your face. You loved me once, Dick, but now your love has turned to hate. It is clear enough. Your hate is so bitter that you will kill me. But I have never told you a lie and I will not die with one on my lips. Yes, I--I am engaged to Monsieur de Güldenfeldt, but I am not----"

The sentence remained unfinished. Martinworth waited for no more. He started from his seat, and shouting wildly, so that his ringing voice was heard far above the roaring of the wind and the waters: "Never, Pearl! Never! Mine at least in death," he stretched his arms towards her, tore her from where she was crouching on her seat, and clasped her to him. For a moment they stood thus, locked in each other's arms, tottering with unsteady feet in the fragile boat, while he gazed with all the frenzy of insanity into her white face. Then as his eyes lingered on hers, large with terror and despair, his sinister intentions appeared to soften, for a change, sudden and complete, passed over his face, transforming the wild glare of madness into a look of grief, despairing sorrow and reproof--sad and mournful in the extreme. He stooped down, let his eyes dwell on hers with the adoring look of old, kissed her once tenderly, almost reverentially, on the forehead, and replacing her as gently upon her seat as he had torn her roughly from it, Lord Martinworth balanced himself for one second on the edge of the boat, then plunged headlong into the seething lake!

One stifled cry mingled with the fury of the wind as, with the violence of Martinworth's movement, the little craft upset, and Pearl Nugent, precipitated into the water, was hurled through the rushing current, and carried helplessly towards the waterfall!

CHAPTER XVI.

"It is Best so, Amy, Dear."

And all through that dreadful night raged one of the most terrible and disastrous typhoons that had visited Japan for many years. Mrs. Nugent and Lord Martinworth, not returning to their respective domiciles, an immediate search was instituted, but as the darkness deepened the wind and rain increased in fury. It was a sheer impossibility to stand up against the raging gale, and eventually the hopeless search had to be temporarily abandoned. In that one night the lake rose six feet, huge landslips descended from Nantai-san, and bridges and roads and dwellings were washed away and demolished, as if mere sheets of paper.

As dawn approached the torrents ceased, and the wind abated.

At length the sun rose in full glory, casting in brilliant irony its penetrating rays over this grievous scene of waste and desolation. And mingling with the foliage of a great tree blown across the still raging stream the auburn tint of Pearl Nugent's hair shone like red gold among the green.

On the upsetting of the boat she had been borne down the torrent. A few seconds more and she would have been dashed over the rocks, hundreds of feet high, which form the cascade. But some hours before, during the fury of the storm, a giant pine tree had fallen with a deafening crash half across the stream. It was that tree that saved Pearl from a watery grave, for wedged, as in a vice, between a fork of its branches, her bruised, unconscious form was ultimately discovered. Her head and shoulders were out of the water, and the rushing stream, instead of loosening, had apparently been the means of entangling only more securely the rent and dripping garments to the branches of the tree. From the bank could be seen her head, with its ashen face and closed eyes, thrown back and pillowed, as it were, upon a wealth of green foliage, while the torrent tore around her with raging fury, in its onward relentless course battering and bruising the delicate limbs.

It was at considerable risk to their own lives that Ralph and Count Carlitti, and other brave men with them, crept cautiously and with the greatest difficulty along the trunk of the tree, over the greater part of which the water was still rushing. By dint of clinging with all their strength to the upstanding branches they at last succeeded after many vain attempts and countless perils, in reaching the tossed, unconscious form.

Count Carlitti clung on to Ralph with all his force, while the latter laid himself down flat on the trunk, and set about cutting away, as best he could, the remnants of Pearl's clothing from the branches. After a wearisome, and what appeared an endless time, this difficult task was at length successfully accomplished, enabling them to drag the inanimate body gently and tenderly along the trunk of the tree, finally rescuing it from the watery bed in which it had been helplessly tossed by the stormy elements for so many hours.

As Ralph bent his head, resting it on her breast, his face brightened somewhat.

"Her heart beats," he murmured. "Thank God she still lives."

Between them they bore her home, and laid her with loving care on the little bed from which Pearl Nugent was fated never to rise again, for human skill was unavailing.

The army doctor from Hong-Kong, who some weeks before had attended Martinworth, was still at Chuzenji. He did his utmost to relieve all pain, and indeed on recovering consciousness Pearl suffered but little. Her spine, independent of other severe internal injuries, was discovered fatally damaged, and Pearl and those around her knew that she was dying. She lingered all that day and all the next, sweet and patient to the end. Rosina and Amy and Lady Martinworth were there. They never left the bedside, and the latter's medical knowledge and gentle, experienced nursing helped greatly to lighten and relieve those last sad and distressing days.

Shortly after Mrs. Nugent had awakened from the deathlike swoon that had lasted so many hours, and when in spite of her diminishing forces she was quite capable of understanding what was wanted of her, she slowly and painfully turned her head on the pillow, and letting her veiled orbs linger on the face bending over her, she read the mute question expressed by Lady Martinworth's miserable eyes.

She put out her hand and gently drew her face to hers.

"He is--drowned," she whispered. "We were--together. The boat upset--in the storm."

That was all. And surely when her spirit stands in judgment before the Throne, Pearl Nugent will be pardoned for having said no more.

She would lie silent and motionless, with her beautiful soft grey eyes, dark with the shadow of death, wide open, while from time to time she would smile with an angelic sweetness at the three women who were watching her.

She spoke but little. Indeed with these few rare exceptions she hardly noticed her watchers, for her thoughts seemed far away from all earthly things. The next day, however, towards the end, as Amy, weeping, was leaning over the bed, she smiled back into her eyes, and whispered very low:

"It is--best so, Amy, dear. Do not weep--for me. I am quite content--more content, more at peace than I have been--for many, many long years. If I had lived--I should not have been happy--nor--should I--have made others--Stanislas--dear, good kind Stanislas--happy. Yes,--it is--best so. I am--quite ready,--quite--willing to--die. No more--difficulties, or--dread, or--terrible indecision,--or--uncertainty now. No more unhappiness--now. All--soon will be made--clear, Amy, dear. When--I am gone--be kind--to Stanislas,--poor--Stanislas, for--he--will grieve, and thank--God--he--will never--know--now, never--know--now. Do not--weep for me, darling. I--have--always--loved--you--Amy. Please--please--do not--weep--so."

And then after a minute or two she sighed and asked: "Where--is he?"

"Ralph went to Tokyo at once to tell him," answered Amy, her voice choked with sobs. "Telegraphic communication has been interrupted by the storm, and the road is washed away. No one can go down or come up from Nikko. Ralph, however, will have got there, Pearl, my darling, even if he had to climb twenty mountains. They will soon be here, darling."

"Yes," whispered Pearl softly, "he will be here--before I die. He is--coming. He knows--I want him. But he--will grieve, poor--Stanislas,--poor--true--heart, he--will grieve,--but--thank God!--he will--never--know--now."

Then she turned her head, and for the last time, and in unbroken silence, she gazed out far before her at the mountains and the lake.

It was the following morning shortly after dawn that the doctor told them she could not last much longer. And even as he was making this sad announcement Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, accompanied by Ralph, who had met him half way to Tokyo, weary and worn and travel stained, appeared outside the house.

Pearl, who had been lying partially unconscious for many hours, suddenly awoke from her torpor, and raising her head from the pillow, gazed fixedly with shining eyes through the open shoji.

"Stanislas has come! He is near me!" she called in a clear and ringing voice, "Bring him to me."

Rosina exchanged a glance of surprise with Amy as she left the room, for from where Pearl was lying in bed it was impossible for her to see her lover, and silence reigned,--no word had been spoken.

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, exhausted by sorrow and fatigue, went alone into the room of his dying love. And when, over an hour later, the others, anxious at the ominous silence, ventured within the death-chamber, they found him kneeling by the bedside--unconscious,--his dark hair mingling on the pillow with Pearl's auburn curls, while her dead cheek was pressed against his lips, and her dead arms were clasped around his neck.

Stanislas never completely recovered from the shock and grief of Pearl's tragic death. Shortly following her loss he left the Diplomatic Service. He was strongly advised against this step by his many friends, amongst whom, as his truest and his best, he counted not only the Rawlinsons and Sir Ralph and Lady Nicholson, but his former colleague, Count Carlitti, who in fair Japan, falling a victim to the freshness of Muriel Millward-Fraser, had promptly, within two months of Mrs. Nugent's death, placed his ancient name and title, to say nothing of his "leetle fortune," in all their completeness at the extremely pretty feet of "cette belle jeune fille Anglaise."

But the counsels of de Güldenfeldt's friends fell on deaf ears. He took a hatred for the Service, and never for a moment in the future did he regret his former busy and interesting life. He made England the country of his adoption, buying himself a small but beautiful estate in one of the western counties. There, surrounded by his lovely garden and orchid houses, his books, and portraits and souvenirs of Pearl, he passed--if not a happy--at any rate a peaceful existence, and when not at home he spent much of his time with the Nicholsons, whose lovely place was in the adjoining county.

His devotion to his god-daughter, Pearl Nicholson, was profound. And to her alone was he ever known to mention the name of his dead love. Many were the talks that this strange pair, the elderly, saddened man and the innocent child, held on this subject. But to the last, to no other person, not even to Rosina or to Amy, did Stanislas de Güldenfeldt ever refer directly to that unforgotten page that influenced every thought and action of his life.

This sweet confidence between the man and child had arisen in this way.

Seven or eight years after Pearl's death, while the Nicholsons were paying their annual visit to Lynlath, Stanislas entered one day, somewhat unexpectedly, into his library. There, in front of a full length and most successful portrait of Mrs. Nugent, painted after her death from photographs and description, was standing, with uplifted head and sorrowful visage--his little god-daughter. The child's hands were clasped behind her back, and the same gleam of sun that lit up the sweet, lovely face of the portrait fell across the golden locks of the little girl, as she turned towards Stanislas with tears streaming down her cheeks.

"You have, godpapa," she said, "so many pictures of this beautiful lady with the large grey eyes. What lovely hair she has! But what a sad, sad face! I feel I love her so, and often and often I come in here and look at her, and she seems to talk to me. Tell me about her, godpapa. Did you love her too?"

And Stanislas de Güldenfeldt took Pearl's namesake on his knee, and with sad eyes gazing back far into the past he told her of his eternal love.

Printed by Holland Rowbottom, "Graphic" Office, Bournemouth.