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.