CHAPTER X.

IN THE SHADOW OF A TOMB.

It was an early summer, and as Pearl's health was sufficiently restored to render her fit for travel, she was ordered by the doctors to leave Tokyo. By the end of June the heat became intense, and early in July she and the Rawlinson ladies departed for Nikko, _en route_ for Chuzenji.

On the borders of the beautiful lake of Chuzenji, Pearl, following her cousin's example, had built herself, during the first year of her arrival, a small and picturesque Japanese house. She loved this charming spot, as all must learn to love it who have passed the summer months by the borders of its blue, rippling water, and beneath the shadows of its wooded mountains. Pearl was peculiarly susceptible to the influences of nature, and the summers already spent by her at Chuzenji had been principally employed in sailing her little boat on the lake, watching with keen delight the changing scenery, sometimes so dazzling in its sunlit verdure, at others, beneath its sudden storms, so sombre, terrible, and forbidding. Pearl knew the lake under all its aspects, and from constant watching could foretell almost as well as a Japanese _sendo_,[11] the rapid transformations that metamorphosed in a few minutes the whole face of Nature. For it is a lake not only to be loved, but with its sudden rages, sweeping mists, and boundless, unknown depths, equally to be feared.

[11] Boatman.

During a happy summer on the Thames many years before Martinworth had taught her how to manage and to sail a boat, and the knowledge of this art had proved one of Pearl's greatest pleasures during those calm, peaceful months, spent high in the Japanese hills. She would sail for hours in her little skiff, gazing with eyes full of mystery into the glittering blue expanse of sky and waters, while the perpendicular sides of the sacred mountain Nantai-san, black with the shadows of its impenetrable forests, stood like a giant sentinel among its lesser brethren, overshadowing, in its gloomy, threatening darkness, the glowing outer world.

But this year, before attempting the ascent to Chuzenji, it was thought advisable, on account of Pearl's health, to pause half way for some days at Nikko. The nights of this lovely mountain village were refreshingly cool and invigorating after the suffocating airlessness of the city, whilst during the lovely summer days Pearl and her cousins would wander through the romantic grounds of the Nikko temples, or seat themselves for hours by the borders of the river, watching its hurried rush over rocks and colossal boulders, which year after year, to the destruction of roads and bridges, are borne by resistless floods from the mountains above.

The trio of ladies had been but a few days at Nikko when they were joined by the Swedish Minister and Nicholson, Tokyo being found unbearably dull after the departure of their friends. Nikko, with its sparkling, verdure-bordered streams and cloudless sky, its fairylike and wooded glens, its avenues of great pine trees dusky in the gathering shadows of the night,--is an ideal spot for lovers. This fact Amy and Ralph were not long in discovering for themselves, and from the day that the latter joined them, Mrs. Rawlinson was permitted to see but next to nothing of her pretty niece, and with her usual good-temper, accepted the inevitable.

As for Pearl Nugent, she was at this moment passing through a period of transition, difficult to imagine and still more difficult to endure. She who for so long had devoted first her existence, and later on her thoughts to one sole object, awoke one day to find that all was transformed--that the dream was over, and that she loved no longer.

Needless to say, the awakening was a cruel one.

To her dismay, not only did she discover that this passion of her life, which till now had never even flickered, but had burned with an ever-steady glow, not only was this passion extinguished for ever,--but slowly and positively the fact dawned upon Pearl that the mere mention of the name of Martinworth was alone sufficient to give rise to a sentiment of shrinking terror, of breathless dismay, of overwhelming consternation and regret. She could not think of that fatal letter of summons, of his passionate reply to that letter, already expressive of immediate possession, of that conquering look of triumph on his face when he entered her room that eventful night,--without turning white with consuming shame, with misery and reproach.

She hated herself as she recalled those moments. And in hating herself she realised that slowly developing was an incipient feeling of dislike against the man who, however unwittingly, had given rise to these sentiments of humiliation and disgrace.

She did not for one moment attempt to disguise from herself the cruel injustice of this feeling. She knew well enough that Martinworth had conducted himself with unselfish and most unusual abnegation in withdrawing all claim to one who had said, "I am yours--take me!" She knew that nine men out of ten would have unflinchingly held her to her word, allowing no temporary stumbling block of shrinking feminine vacillation to intercept the realization of their strivings, the unfaltering desire of years. She knew that it was his deep and absorbing love that was the cause--the unconscious cause--of that prompt decision of renouncing her for ever. And yet, knowing all this, it was in her eyes sufficient that he should have witnessed her in that period of humiliation, that he should have divined, if only partially, her agony of mind during those days of weakness and of degradation, for her to shrink, not only with fear and distaste, but what was more--with horror and dismay from the man she had once so passionately loved, so ardently admired and believed in.

She had fallen so low--so bitterly low in her own eyes. True, at the supreme moment of the crisis she had fled from the consequences of her final undoing. But Pearl's natural candour of disposition, her innate honesty, did not permit her to cloak over with weak sophistries and self-excuses what she knew at one time had been not only her firm intention, but in those days of frenzy, her sole desire and earnest aspiration.

During many hours of necessary idleness she would lie on her _chaise longue_, brooding over every incident since Martinworth had once more come into her life. This process of self-examination became almost morbid in its intensity and repetition. But all her thought, her constant restless brooding, did not satisfactorily explain to her the reason of that hasty, that impetuous appeal at the eleventh hour to Amy Mendovy. Why had joyful anticipation so suddenly given place to terror? and what was the impulse that had prompted her at the last moment to indite that desperate, that frantic note for aid?

Pearl believed in a God, and at times she found herself asking if this sudden saving act, this possible loophole of escape, had not indeed been inspired by an unheard Voice, by Divine and Holy intermediation?

This question, however, like so many that she asked herself during these weeks, remained unanswered, and the only feeling that stood out clear in Pearl's confused and weary mind was the prayerful hope that never again would it be her misfortune to come across the man who had given rise to such relentless feelings of shame and self-humiliation.

Meanwhile Stanislas de Güldenfeldt was there, haunting her presence like a shadow, and Pearl did not disguise from herself that she found a great security and peace, a certain happiness, in the proximity of one who made it his pleasure and his duty to anticipate her slightest wish, to sympathise with her every thought and feeling. Stanislas from the first moment of Pearl's convalescence had shown himself as gentle and as tender as a woman. With peculiar tact, without the slightest shade of fussiness, he was always on the spot, shielding her from every physical pain, from every mental worry. For the first time in her life Pearl appreciated the delight of being thoroughly spoiled and petted. What wonder if she learned to consider Stanislas as her own special property, and most certainly necessary to her comfort and well-being?

Amy would stand aloof, looking on with surprise and indignation at the sight of this big man with the strong face and commanding eyes being ordered about, the object of every capricious whim, every sudden fancy, and frequently scolded like a child for his pains. It seemed to her that there was something rather ridiculous and certainly slightly pathetic in the spectacle.

"Ralph," she said one day, when for the third time Stanislas had hurried off in the burning sun to the hotel, to fetch an extra rug or cushion for his lady-love, and Pearl, as a matter of course, had allowed him to go, "Ralph, will you promise me one thing? If you ever perceive incipient signs of an inclination on my part to treat you like a slave, will you please jilt me without hesitation? I might lose you, but at any rate I should retain my respect for you."

"Well, then, let us hurry up and break it off at once," laughed Nicholson. "Could anyone see a more patient beast of burden than I am at the present moment? A sketch book, a paint box, a camp stool, a cushion, a parasol, and soon, when the sun gets cooler, I foresee--a coat. Perhaps you would kindly inform me of the difference of my fate to that of the man you pity."

"Don't talk nonsense, Ralph. You know perfectly well what I mean. Pray, do I keep you constantly on the trot? Why, the poor man is never allowed a second's leisure or repose. He's a slave, a perfectly abject slave. Pearl looks upon his devotion, upon the sacrifice of his time, not only as a matter of course, but as her right. And they're not even engaged yet."

"Well, one thing is they are bound to be before long," replied Ralph. "Bless you, my dear girl, he likes it, he glories in it. That rather stern 'phiz' of his has borne of late quite a seraphic expression. Leave the poor fellow alone, Amy, and let him be happy in his own way."

"All I can say is," replied Amy severely, "it is quite the last way I should have expected Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, of all people, to choose to be happy. It makes me quite ill to see a splendid big fellow like that reduced to the rank of the tamest of tame cats, and what is more, appearing to delight in that extremely humiliating position."

"Don't distress yourself, my child," laughed Ralph, as they wandered off to their favourite seat beside the river. "It is a ridiculous phase through which we men pass, one and all, each as our turn comes. And though you pretend not to see it, Amy, I at this present time am in a precisely similar idiotic stage. Bless you, I know it, and do I complain? On the contrary, I survive the ordeal extremely well, while to the general outsider I appear, I am sure, as beaming and as blissfully foolish as de Güldenfeldt. We both have every intention of getting our _quid pro quo_ later on, you know."

The person discussed was, as Nicholson announced, entirely satisfied with the existing state of affairs. Monsieur de Güldenfeldt would indeed have been willing to allow matters to proceed in the same easy fashion for ever, had he not one day received a warning that it was time for him to speak again.

Mrs. Rawlinson had been watching the progress of events with characteristic shrewdness. Her observations caused her after a time to conclude that de Güldenfeldt and Pearl had both reached a stage which, however delightful in its dreamy uncertainty, certainly as far as the future of her cousin was concerned, was a long way from being either practical or desirable.

She therefore made up her mind that matters should be brought to a climax. A prompt and decisive action appeared still more necessary on the receipt one morning of a letter from Lady Martinworth, announcing the fact of the couple's premeditated visit to Chuzenji, and begging Mrs. Rawlinson to telephone for rooms at the hotel.

Rosina's heart sank at this news, for though Pearl had never taken her cousin into her confidence, her ravings during her delirium, independently of her subsequent melancholy, were facts sufficient to explain the unfortunate influence Lord Martinworth still exercised over the younger woman's impressible and sensitive nature.

She saw how absolutely necessary it was before his appearance once more upon the scene that matters between Pearl and de Güldenfeldt should be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. Rosina was never long in making up her mind, and having once determined on a little judicious meddling, she captured the would-be lover one day as he was lounging off to join Pearl, and in a manner thoroughly typical, straightway went to the point.

"Monsieur de Güldenfeldt," she said, as she took his arm and led him over the stony road through the straggling Japanese village, "I want to speak to you about Pearl. You remember your conversation with me some weeks ago, do you not?"

"Certainly," replied the Swedish Minister, whose cheeks flushed like a boy's at this abrupt mention of Mrs. Nugent's name, "certainly, I remember it, and your kindness to me during her illness. What is it you want to say, Mrs. Rawlinson?"

"Of course," resumed Rosina, "I should not venture to broach the subject if you had not yourself first mentioned your hopes to me. Monsieur de Güldenfeldt----" and Rosina stopped in her walk and gazed at him straight with her shrewd brown eyes, "I think, if you wish to make certain of Pearl, you ought to ask her again without further delay."

De Güldenfeldt kicked a stone in the pathway.

"Why," he said, "why this hurry?" He laughed uneasily. "To tell you the truth," he added, "I acknowledge to you--I am afraid! That's a nice confession to make, is it not? for a man of my age and experience, and one who is half an Englishman to boot? I'm afraid--downright afraid to again ask Mrs. Nugent to be my wife."

He paused, and then continued nervously: "It would be more than I could bear if she refused me a second time, you know. Why not leave well alone? Matters are pleasant enough as they are."

"Very well, of course you know your own business best," replied Rosina calmly. "I certainly don't venture to prophesy the result of your proposal. I mistrust my own sex too well to answer for their vagaries. Nevertheless, my dear friend, I think Pearl is beginning to learn your value, and--and--by the bye," she added, glancing quickly up into his face, "the Martinworths are going to Chuzenji. We are to engage rooms for them, as they wish to escape the heat of Tokyo as soon as possible."

Monsieur de Güldenfeldt made no reply. But with considerable satisfaction Rosina observed, through the corners of her eyes, the change in his expression at her communication.

"If that won't bring him to his senses, nothing will," she thought.

And as usual, Rosina was right.

All during this happy time of inaction de Güldenfeldt had not once thought of Martinworth's existence. Lord and Lady Martinworth had arrived in Japan during his absence from the capital. On his return he had more than once met the latter at Pearl's house. He had inquired after the husband, been told he was travelling, and since then had never given him another thought.

Naturally, he knew nothing of what had occurred in Tokyo. Mrs. Rawlinson's tone and expression of countenance had however, been more than significant. Stanislas awoke suddenly to the fact that, with the re-arrival on the scene of operations of the man who had formerly played so important a part in Pearl's life, there arose an obstacle, a threatening danger, on which he had but little reckoned, and for which he found himself totally unprepared.

In spite, therefore, of the timidity of which he had made so _naïve_ a confession, he resolved to take Mrs. Rawlinson's friendly hint, and to speak again without delay.

The opportunity was not long in occurring.

That afternoon Pearl announced her intention of attempting the ascent to Ieyasu's Tomb.[12] So far, she had not ventured to climb the numberless steps that lead to the Shogun's last resting place, but it was a spot she dearly loved, and she never left Nikko without paying this hallowed ground at least one visit.

[12] Ieyasu was the first Shogun of the Tokugawa dynasty. His remains were removed to their present resting place at Nikko in 1617.

It was somewhat late in the afternoon when she and de Güldenfeldt left the hotel. As they walked through the Temple grounds and arrived at the steps the sun was still hot, and glistened like a stream of fire through the forests and belts of brilliant maple trees beyond, lighting up their sheeny green with a glory of colour, golden, dazzling and intense. Both were silent as they slowly mounted the steps, bordered by the moss-grown balustrade of stone. Beyond was the glowing outer world, but here around them, centuries old, were the black and threatening cryptomeria pines, towering on either side like great angels of darkness spreading wide their gloomy wings, while away in the distance through the vast dreamy forest, the wind rose and fell with mystical and harmonious cadence.

Up and up they climbed, and as she paused for breath Pearl felt a delightful feeling of exaltation at the sight of these lofty trees, these grand and ancient pines, guarding like giant sentinels the balustrade of stone, and the wide and numberless steps, green with moss and age. She knew so well that this solemn approach led,--not to some magnificent palace, not to some temple, gorgeous with colouring, and wonderful with intricate carvings, but--buried within the heart of the forest--to a little lonely tomb of bronze, shaped like an urn, and guarded on either side by the sacred stork, the symbolic and gigantic lotus leaves.

What more noble--what more awe-inspiring than this towering, upward, and impressive approach to all that is most pathetically simple, most modestly unadorned of funeral monuments to the honoured and beloved dead? Only an artist mind of an artist country could have planned, created, and carried out this beautiful and poetical thought, and only artist minds, such as Pearl's and de Güldenfeldt's, could know how to appreciate,--how to adore,--the nobility and grandeur of the conception.

Pearl was still silent as she sat down on the stone coping surrounding the bronze urn, listening to the wind as it musically and eternally sighed through the banks of trees beyond. Just before starting for her walk Rosina had told her of Lady Martinworth's letter, and she was still under the influence of dismay aroused by the unwelcome news. A feeling not only of complete helplessness, but of approaching evil, overshadowed her. She felt stupefied, paralysed by what she had heard. The news was totally unexpected, for only the day before Pearl left Tokyo Lady Martinworth had volunteered the information of her approaching departure from Japan. Pearl found herself wondering what unforeseen circumstances could have caused her to change this determination. Was it that Lady Martinworth had made her arrangements without consulting her husband? and was it possible that he himself had other plans in view? In spite of his assurances and promises in her house that night, was it--could it be--that he wished to see her again, that he still had hopes, was still unwearied in his pursuit?

Pearl's growing dislike awakened her suspicions, and made her foresee and fear every probable, every improbable design on Martinworth's part, all sense of justice being swamped in this newborn dread of a man she had been willing not so long since to follow to the end of the world.

She was aroused from these anxious forebodings, these problematical and gloomy prognostications, by the sound of her companion's voice. He had seated himself by her side on the coping, and on glancing up into his face, Pearl was struck by its gravity and unusual pallor.

"Mrs. Nugent," he said slowly, looking at her very intently, "will you be so kind as to give me your attention for a few moments? I wish to ask you something."

Pearl, who understood instinctively the meaning of these preliminary words, flushed--merely bowing her assent.

"Some months ago," continued de Güldenfeldt gravely, "I ventured to ask you for your hand. You refused me. And I confess I took your refusal very much, very deeply to heart. I felt then that, however much I might desire you for my wife, I could never bring myself to repeat the request. But I love you dearly, Pearl,"--here his eyes grew large and soft as they rested on her face--"you are everything in the wide world to me. I feel I cannot live without you, and before this one absorbing passion of my life, all my surprise, my anger, my pride have fallen away from me, and now once more I beg you to listen to me, and to grant me the great gift of your most precious self."

As he said the last words, Stanislas rose from his seat, and standing before Pearl, held out his two hands towards her.

Pearl said nothing in reply, but with a smile of great sweetness simply placed her hands in his. He drew her up beside himself, and bending down, kissed her on the forehead.

And thus they silently stood lit up by the slanting sun, while the wind sang in the trees its eternal song of peace. Stanislas held her in his arms, a great joy filling his heart as he gazed down into the beautiful pale face of this woman whom he had gained at last, and whom he vowed to himself should one day love him as he loved her.

At length Pearl broke the long and expressive silence, until now only disturbed by the throbbing of their hearts.

"Monsieur de Güldenfeldt," she said quietly, as she drew herself slightly away from him, "you have asked me to be your wife, and I accept, for I know now that though I cannot yet give you my love, I like you much, yes, very, very much. Perhaps, however, when you hear what I have to say, you will regret what you have done. Better however, a thousand times that you should know now, and part from me while your love is still young, than that in the years to come you should discover my weakness, learn in consequence to despise me, and leave me to die of grief. Will you listen a moment to me, Stanislas, while I tell you what happened after you left Tokyo?"

De Güldenfeldt's face clouded, but he answered gently as he once more put his arms around her and drew her to him.

"No, Pearl," he said, "I will not listen to you. It is better not, dear. I wish to know nothing. I believe in you and trust you, darling. Have I not known your life for years? Has it not been as an open book to me?"

"Yes, and for that very reason," replied Pearl firmly, "there must be no closed chapters in it. If you do not let me speak now, I cannot be your wife. For I have sworn,--my friend,--there must be no secrets between you and me."

"Speak, then," replied de Güldenfeldt, somewhat sadly, "if you will it so."

But Pearl did not seem in a hurry to take advantage of the permission thus reluctantly given. With a sigh she sat down again on the stone coping, half shielding her face with her hand.

At length she opened her lips to speak. Her voice was low, but there was a clearness, an incisiveness in the tones that impressed her listener. She gazed straight before her and spoke unhesitatingly, as if relating an oft-repeated tale.

"Shortly after you left," she said, "the Martinworths arrived in Tokyo. I had been warned of their approaching arrival. Nevertheless, I eventually met them unexpectedly at the Imperial garden-party. It was a shock to me to see them--to see him--there, and on my return home I was still thinking over this meeting, when Lady Martinworth called on me. Before her departure from my house she confided to me her attachment to her husband, and she told me that she was a very unhappy woman. She made also a strange request. She asked me to be her friend. She appeared very much moved, very much upset. Finally I took her in my arms and comforted her, and, feeling very, very sorry for her, I promised her my friendship."

Here Pearl paused, and looked up at Monsieur de Güldenfeldt with a slight flush on her cheeks.

"She had hardly left me," she continued, "when Lord Martinworth was announced. I perceived at once the change--a change for the worse--in him. But I was hardly prepared for his accusations against me, as the cause of that change. He blamed me for many things, and seemed to think my leaving him after obtaining my divorce--when I might have been his wife--was prompted by interested motives. My anger rose at the injustice of his accusations, and I replied very strongly, very bitterly, begging him to leave me and to return to his wife. I held out my hand to him as a token of farewell, and as he took it between his own and kept it there, I felt the revival of all my love for him. He pleaded with me"--here Pearl grew pale once more--"and I--and I--listened, Stanislas--at last--to his pleading. I was on the point of yielding to his prayers, for I felt I had loved him so deeply, and for so very long--I was yielding, I say--when I remembered my recent promise to his wife. It was that remembrance, I think, that made me pause. I bade him go. And he left me."

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.