CHAPTER II.

IN LOTUS-LAND.

Pearl Nugent had every reason to congratulate herself on her energy in having renounced her old life and surroundings, for the three years passed in Tokyo had proved the happiest, and certainly the most peaceful, of her hitherto somewhat stormy existence.

On her first arrival in Japan she had remained for some weeks--until she had settled herself in her own house--with her cousin, Mrs. Rawlinson. It had been a profitable and happy time for both, and for Pearl especially the association at this uncertain period of her life with a woman like Rosina Rawlinson, was beneficial in every respect.

Everybody in Tokyo knew, respected, and loved Rosina, as she was generally called behind her back. It was Rosina to whom one flew for advice when placed in a slight difficulty, or for comfort when overcome by a great trouble. It was Rosina who would get up in the middle of the night to nurse a sick child, and it was she who received the confidences of the various young men and women of the community, received them with bright sympathy, and however trifling, kept them secretly locked within her own breast. Again it was to Rosina, or to Rosina's husband, that everybody of importance seemed to bring letters of introduction, and many was the helpless and inexperienced globe-trotter whose appeal for aid had been listened to by Rosina. Above all, it was Rosina who gave the jolliest, cheeriest little Bridge dinners in Tokyo, dinners where the wine and food were both above reproach, and where the most amusing people, and those most congenial to each other, were sure to be gathered together.

Those little dinners of Rosina's were alone enough to make her the most popular person in Japan.

For the first fortnight after Pearl's arrival, to her infinite relief, Mrs. Rawlinson, with her usual tact, had closed her doors to every one.

"You will soon see enough of the people, my dear," she said, "without the necessity of being bored just at present. You and I have plenty to talk about, heaven knows! So we'll just sit over the fire and yarn, as that dear sailor boy of mine calls it, until we are both hoarse. I sent my niece Amy away on purpose, for I knew you would have many things to say to me that it's as well she should know nothing about, and, as for Tom, he doesn't count, you know, for he's at his office all day, and he sleeps all the evening. He is a dear old thing, but I can't say he's a particularly lively husband. He says I do the talking for both, but even in that case one expects more than a grunt as a reply, and I assure you that is often all he vouchsafes me."

"And Amy?" asked Pearl, "has she grown up as pretty as she promised to be? I haven't seen her for four years now, for you remember I was abroad all that last year she was at school at Brighton."

"I am anxious to know what you think of Amy," responded Mrs. Rawlinson. "Out here she is considered a beauty. But of course, coming straight from Europe as you do, and accustomed to seeing all the loveliest women in Paris and in London, you may think nothing of her. People tell me she is the handsomest girl in Japan, and certainly I have seen no one with such glorious eyes or brilliant colouring. But I may be prejudiced in her favour, and therefore, my dear, I am quite anxious to have your opinion. One thing, however, I do know, and that is she is the most terrible flirt that ever was born. What I have gone through, my dear Pearl, with that girl no one knows. She has had heaps of offers--good ones, you know, from diplomats and people in excellent positions, but my lady turns up that pretty nose of hers at one and all. Pure conceit I call it, for she knows she is penniless. I always tell her that under the circumstances she is lucky to have had an offer at all."

"Yes," replied Pearl, "girls at home are now beginning to find that offers of marriage are not to be had by merely looking pretty, or even by being clever and amusing. The practical, modern young man generally thinks of his pocket before all other considerations. Looks and intelligence are quite in the minority, I assure you."

"Of course! But I might just as well speak to a stone wall as to discuss the advantages of matrimony with Amy. And then, you know, she behaves so badly. She never shows the least repentance when she refuses these men one after the other. She says she knows none of them will break their hearts about her, and that she has not the slightest intention of wasting her sympathy over people who doubtless one and all will be consoled in less than three months. Such nonsense, you know, and so hard-hearted! Yes, certainly Amy is a strange girl. She is really rather a trial to me sometimes. Yet, in spite of all her faults, she is wonderfully lovable. I think you will discover this fact on your own account."

But three years had passed since this and many such conversations, and Pearl Nugent one lovely Spring morning was seated in her garden, in the neighbourhood of some magnificent flowering cherry trees, idly thinking of what those years had brought her.

Pearl's was a perfect Japanese garden. It was a garden of the past, a poem--a creation of an art whose charm and loveliness only a Japanese can produce. She was seated on the curved branch of a very ancient pine. A few feet distant from her stood a little stone shrine, chipped and blemished, and covered with thick grown moss, while on her left were uneven rocks, and quaint-shaped basins of various forms and designs. Two stone lanterns, green with age, formed on her right a sort of entrance to the miniature lake dotted with tiny islands and surrounded by knolls of bright green grass, from the smooth surface of which rose the spreading cherry trees, now in full bloom. Some of these cherry trees had great gnarled trunks, and were very ancient. Their fallen petals, covering the turf, formed a carpet like delicate pink snow, while above was one glorious burst of blossom, hiding every branch in its mantle of perfect form and beauty.

In and out of the little knolls and hills and elevations, which were reached by stone steps of various shapes, were sanded paths which looked as if they never were meant to be trod upon, and to prevent such a desecration flat, queer shaped stepping stones were placed in strange and irregular positions. Everything was irregular and unexpected in this fascinating garden. Flowers were rare, but fine old trees abounded, and shrubs and ancient pines,--some allowed to grow at their own sweet will, others dwarfed in stature, and trimmed by careful training into fantastic and uncanny shapes.

Beyond was a distant view of Fujiyama still wrapped in its white mantle, though great bare places streaked the mountain, forming weird shadows where the snow had already melted. Pearl felt a certain companionship in this grand old mountain, solitary like herself. She would sit for hours watching it in all its different, but ever lovely aspects, at one time in its snowy covering almost dazzling the eyes in the brilliant morning sunshine, and later on at eventide but vaguely distinct through banks of heavy purple clouds, till gradually fading from view, Fuji would become merged into the fading sky, finally disappearing into the shadows of the darkening night.

Her eyes were dreamily fixed on Fuji now, standing out white and clear. She was not alone, for de Güldenfeldt lay stretched on the grass at her feet. His eyes, however, were employed in studying and admiring what at that moment he considered far more beautiful, far more entrancing, than any mountain in the world--namely, his companion's face.

Pearl was looking considerably younger and handsomer still than when she had left England. Ease of mind and a quiet life had accomplished their work, and the sweet placid face bore no traces of the storms that for a time had marred its beauty, and somewhat hardened its expression. Her past life was to her like an unhappy dream, from which she awoke, to discover with a feeling of infinite relief that it was indeed but a dream, a dream that had faded away for ever. She would find herself in her idle moments, trying to piece the past together, and failing most strangely in the attempt. The utterly miserable life she had spent with her husband, her long moral struggle with Martinworth, those terrible scenes in the Divorce Court, all the incidents of those bitter ten years,--now seemed one and all, like a vanishing and almost forgotten vision. At times she would deliberately set herself to the task of the retrospection of each miserable occurrence, each wretched episode, for there were periods when her present happiness had the effect of almost terrifying her--it seemed so impossible, so unreal. She would then tell herself that it were best and wisest that she should attempt to recall what once had been her life, what once had been her sorrow and despair.

Could this happiness, could this peace of mind really be hers? Would it not fade as a dream even as her past was so quickly vanishing from her mind? How strange! how very strange! she often thought, that she should experience this difficulty in remembering. Even Dick Martinworth was becoming a faint shadow, whose features, voice, and manner she often found it hard to recall. And yet she told herself she loved him as much as ever. She would place his photograph before her and try to remember scenes where they had been together, words that had been spoken between them, and she would be angry with herself to find how difficult it was for her to picture those scenes, to recollect those words. All seemed so far--so very far away, and somewhat to her dismay, Pearl was beginning to realise that she had almost achieved the object in view when she left England--that of complete obliteration, entire forgetfulness of the past.

"The world forgetting, by the world forgot," she quoted half aloud as she rose from her seat and stretched out her hand to pluck a branch of the heavily-laden cherry tree. "Such is now my life, but I do not complain, for it has certainly many advantages--especially one. No one here ever seems to care to ask awkward questions, and if they know my secret they treat me none the worse for it. _Is_ it known, Monsieur de Güldenfeldt?" she inquired suddenly of her companion.

The question came very abruptly, so abruptly, that the Swedish Minister paused before replying. This was the first time since their meeting on the boat three years ago, that Pearl, in spite of her close friendship with Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, had in any way referred to her past history. He looked up quickly, wondering what was working in her mind.

"Why do you ask me that, my dear lady?" he eventually inquired, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

"Yes, why do I ask it?" she echoed. "Why do we ever wish to know anything that may possibly prove painful to us? Why not rest satisfied with this happy, dreamy, forgetting life? Why not, indeed? What a true lotus eater I have become since I came to live in this poetical, beautiful Japan. I hardly know myself. My life glides along, and I take no count of the hours, nor of the days, and to me it is indeed 'always afternoon.'

'With half closed eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half dream.'

Such, indeed, has been my life since I fled to this 'far-off land.' It is delicious, it is almost perfect. But it must not continue, for I know it is enervating. Yes, and what is more, my dear friend, downright demoralising."

"You use strong words, Mrs. Nugent," replied de Güldenfeldt, raising himself on his elbow, and gazing into her flushed face with a look of lurking amusement. "What has upset you to-day?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied Pearl impatiently, "I have been feeling for some time that I ought not to go on in this aimless, indifferent way. It is only quite lately that I bothered about anything--what people might think of me, you know. But the idea has taken possession of me, and I cannot get free from it. So I decided that I would ask you to tell me, for I shall surely get the truth from you. Do they know?" she repeated, fixing her clear grey eyes on his face. "Do they know that I am deceiving them--that I am a fraud, that my name is not really Nugent? Do they know that my husband and I are divorced? Do they know--do they know--about?--Do they know--everything?"

"And you expect me to answer all these questions?" said de Güldenfeldt slowly.

"Yes, I do. I expect you to be perfectly honest and frank with me. It is the least you can do for me, for you call yourself my friend. And, indeed," she added, with her sweet smile, "ever since the day that I first put my feet on these shores you have proved yourself my best, my truest friend."

"Now, I wonder why it should be the duty of a so-called friend to be given the disagreeable task of announcing disagreeable facts," responded de Güldenfeldt pensively. "And indeed, Mrs. Nugent, what good will it do if I repeat all the gossip that is bound to go on in a place like this? You can't stop it, you know, any more than you can hope to turn the tide."

"Then they do gossip about me?" continued Pearl with persistency.

"Of course they do."

"And what do they say?"

"Oh, heavens! give me a woman for tenacity of purpose!" exclaimed de Güldenfeldt, rising and stretching his long limbs. "By the by," he continued, suddenly changing the subject, "do you know that Nicholson arrived in Yokohama yesterday? I thought, in spite of his hasty departure over eighteen months ago now, the attractions of Japan would ultimately prove too strong for him."

"Amy refused him, you know. But I believe she really liked him all the time. Are you thinking of her when you speak of attractions?"

"I should say she is the sole and only one. I know at the time he was awfully hard hit. It was our conversation that made me think of him. Never shall I forget the way he stuck up for you one evening at the Club, when that little brute Reichter--who has left, thank God--came out with some garbled version of your story. _Mon Dieu!_ didn't Nicholson give it him, just! He is such a lazy, _nonchalant_ beggar that one never expected to see him fly into such a passion. We all stood aghast, while he lashed the mean little brute with his sarcastic tongue. Yes! you have got a loyal, good friend in Nicholson, Mrs. Nugent."

"And another in you. Yet you change the conversation to avoid telling me what I want so much to know. It is not very kind of you, I think."

"Well, I suppose you will get your way in the end," de Güldenfeldt replied, with a smile, "so I may as well surrender without further hesitation. Yes, people know your story, Mrs. Nugent. However strictly your cousin Mrs. Rawlinson, Nicholson and I have kept the secret, it has somehow oozed out. I firmly believe that it was those globe-trotters--the Clive-Carnishers, who, recognising you at the last Chrysanthemum Party, set it about. At any rate, it is known at the English Legation who you really are, for Thomson spoke to me about it one day. You see," he added deprecatingly, "if you had never entertained, if you had been ugly and stupid and uninteresting, people certainly would not have troubled their heads about you, nor have gone to the bother of raking up old stories. But being what you are, charming and beautiful, no matter if you hide yourself in the moon, no matter if you change your name a dozen times, no matter if you live the life of a hermit--your story, dear lady, will follow you to the end of your existence. There! Now I have given in and told you the truth, and what good will it do you, I should like to know?"

"It has already eased my mind considerably, only that," replied Pearl, "I don't know what has possessed me of late, but I have felt as if I were a cheat--a fraud. You see, I have grown fond of the people here, both Japanese and Europeans, and I have begun to recognise that I was rewarding their kindness but indifferently. Because I was Rosina's cousin, everyone, when I first came, received me with open arms. Then I think they got to like me a little for my own sake. Now you tell me they know my story. Well, this shows, at any rate, that I was right in leaving England, and choosing instead this dear Japan as my home. It is only in a place like this that one would find so much kindness, so much indulgence. The foreign community is so small, so very restricted you see, that I suppose people can't afford to be too exclusive, too particular," she added, rather bitterly.

De Güldenfeldt did not reply. He knew there was considerable truth in Pearl's remarks. If Mrs. Nugent had remained in England she would henceforth, necessarily, have only been received on sufferance. She would by degrees have sunk into the ranks of _les déclassées_, with no fixed abode, reduced to wandering from second-rate watering-places to out-of-the-way continental towns, seeking rest and finding none. Thus her youth, embittered and disappointed, would finally have passed, and she who formerly had ever been welcome within the portals of good society, would have found herself crawling on her knees, discrowned, outside those closed gates. Here, on the contrary, in the limited European society of the facile East, in spite of varied and garbled versions of her story being known, not only did she receive and was received, but she was considered an acquisition, indeed, much sought after for her beauty and sweetness, her charm and many social talents.

As de Güldenfeldt walked away from Pearl's house that day he was very pensive. The knowledge that he loved Pearl Nugent came as nothing fresh to his mind. He had been fully aware of this fact since their encounter long ago on board the Canadian Pacific liner. At that time however, if anyone had ventured to tell him he would have ever contemplated marrying a woman who had gone through Pearl's unfortunate experiences, a woman who had been tarred by the dirty brush of the Divorce Court, he would have been the first to have scouted the idea as utterly impossible and absurd.

Stanislas de Güldenfeldt was extremely ambitious. His profession was his god, and ever since the day he had entered on his career all his natural tastes and longings, all his passions and desires, had been subservient to this love of his profession and to the determination to excel. He was possessed of many talents and a considerable amount of good looks, which gifts, combined with great charm of manner and the attractions of his position, all helped to made him a favourite with men and women alike. But a natural cautiousness of disposition, together with this ruling love of his profession, caused him to feel general indifference as far as women were concerned, and though he certainly affected their society, and was never otherwise than courteous and charming towards them, he had, with but one or two exceptions been but little influenced by the feminine sex throughout his life. These exceptions had on each occasion proved themselves episodes rather of a pleasant than of a painful nature. He had experienced nevertheless, a certain relief when in the natural course of events these chapters of his life were closed, and with a mind free from all outward influences, once more he could devote his time and his thoughts entirely to his work. He would tell himself that in the abstract he admired women, that on the whole he thought them superior to his own sex. Then he would find himself wondering how it was that in spite of this undoubted admiration, and what indeed might almost be called veneration, he had really loved them so seldom, why the real depths of his nature had been so little stirred, so little troubled by their presence. He knew the answer to that question well enough, but he would seldom give it even to himself, for he frequently felt irritated with himself at this entire absorption in his work, and above all for what he was wont at times to fancy was an absolute want of sentiment in his nature.

And yet as he emerged from Pearl Nugent's garden that spring morning, Monsieur de Güldenfeldt realised to the full what he had more or less known for three years past--that he was even as others were, and that he could love, love with the full power of his long pent-up feelings, and learning this fact, instead of blessing he lamented his fate. He thought of Pearl with her distinguished yet perfectly simple air. He thought of the straight, clear-cut profile, and the firm, rather square little chin, of those pure and clear grey eyes, and the habit she had of doubling her fingers tightly into the palms of her hands. He thought of those many outward examples of her firm and reliant character--and his heart sank. He felt he desired her above everything in the wide world, and he knew as surely as he knew he was himself that if he wished to gratify that desire he must marry her. Stanislas de Güldenfeldt had not studied Pearl's character for three years for nothing. He was confident in his own mind that she had never listened to Martinworth's entreaties, and he knew that in spite of the irregularity of her present position--perhaps for that very reason--there was a pride, a certain hardness in her nature, that would debar him from venturing to propose any union but one which, in the eyes of the world, was strictly conventional and correct.

That day de Güldenfeldt, whistling for his dogs, started on a solitary walk of some miles, far away from the stir and haste of the city. It was a perfect spring day, with a soft breeze blowing, and a hot sun overhead. Stanislas skirted the fields, already bright with the young corn, his eyes lingering on the beauty of the rich and varied foliage, and on the little knolls of many a secluded and shaded grove fringed with clumps of feathery bamboos and an occasional palm waving aloft in the balmy air. Contrasting with the vivid and many shaded greens, and always on the loftiest hill, half hidden in the shadiest spot of the neighbourhood, would be visible the red portal or _torii_ of some little shrine raised to _Inari Sama_--the god of farming--or perhaps to some other deity of the province, while away in the distance rose a range of purple mountains, and on the east a streak of sea gleamed like silver in the bright afternoon sun. He crossed more than one stream of water, in the cool depths of which groups of stark naked urchins were frisking in the wild abandoned gambols of happy childhood. Peasant women of all ages, wrapped in their scanty upper garments and blue cotton trousers, far more resembling men than members of the gentler sex, would pass along the road, bent and almost hidden beneath overwhelming burdens of huge bundles of faggots, yet ever ready with a cheerful greeting as they toiled on towards the thatched farm houses nestling in the hamlets and villages beyond. Stanislas longed to be an artist to depict on paper these simple scenes of Japanese country life, to be capable of immortalising this lovely peaceful nature, chief of which in his eyes were for the present the snowy blooms of the cherry tree, contrasting with the sombre cryptomeria pines, and the brilliant green and red of the giant wild camellia.

But Stanislas, equally ignorant of the kodak as of the paint brush, with a faint sigh of regret continued his tramp alongside the little square fields of the fresh young corn, emerald-green in colour, traversing in his walk many an enchanting silent grove, till at length he reached the goal of his pilgrimage.

Hidden away in the little village of Meguro, and overgrown by vegetation, is a miniature and ancient graveyard. Two grey and battered stones, half fallen on the ground, and half hidden in the long rank grass, is all that is left in this old, old burying ground to mark the last resting place of the dead. Stanislas knew well the pathetic love tale connected with these gravestones, placed there over three hundred years ago, and he paused to examine once again the faint inscription borne by one of them. "The tomb of the Shiyoku," he read, the Shiyoku being, he knew, fabulous birds, emblems of love and fidelity. This moss-grown stone, lying battered and broken before him, told of a love-tale romantic in many of its details, and tragic in its ending. There it had stood for generations, the sole memorial of the burial place of the robber Gompachi, remarkable for his valour and great personal beauty, and of his companion in death, the lovely and loving courtesan, Komurasaki.

The story relates how Gompachi after many murders, was at length caught red-handed and promptly executed, his body being rescued and buried by devoted friends in the grounds of the Temple of Meguro. Komurasaki, getting news of her lover's death, hied to the spot, wept and prayed long over the tomb, then drawing the dagger--a weapon which in those days every woman wore on her person--from the folds of her "obi,"[1] she plunged it into her heart, and, sinking on the ground, sighed her last breath over the grave of her beloved.

[1] A sash worn over the dress.

The legend continues how the priests, touched and greatly struck at the devotion of this beautiful maiden, laid her by the side of her lover, burying them in one grave. There they placed to their memory the stone which remains to this day, and before which incense is burnt, and flowers and offerings are laid, by all true and devoted lovers.

Hard by the gravestone under which so long have mouldered the remains of Gompachi and Komurasaki, is another memorial which appears almost as ancient, on which is engraved the following words which many a time had been read and translated to Stanislas:

"In the old days of Genroku, she pined for the beauty of her lover, who was as fair to look upon as the flowers, and now, beneath the moss of this old tombstone, all has perished of her love but her name. Amid the changes of a fitful world, this tomb is decaying under the dew and the rain, gradually crumbling beneath its own dust, its outline alone remaining. Stranger, bestow an alms to preserve this stone, and we, sparing neither pain nor labour, will second you with all our hearts. Greeting it again, let us preserve it from decay for future generations, and let us write the following verse upon it:--'These two birds, beautiful as the cherry blossom, perished before their time, like flowers broken down by the wind before they have borne seed.'"

For some time de Güldenfeldt hovered round this romantic spot, musing long on this old-world tale of a love, faithful and lasting even in death. But the time wore on, the shadows lengthened, and half-regretfully he rose, wending his way to the Buddhist Temple of Fudo Sama, a spot that he knew well, buried within a grove of ancient maple trees.

This was a very favourite resort of his. He passed through the _torii_ or stone gateway, bounding up the many steps that led to the Shrine, and before which was placed the deep stone-lined basin of water, kept replenished by the ancient bronze fountain carved in the form of a dragon, spouting out from the rock behind.

Stanislas sat himself down by the basin, and lighting a cigarette ruminated on the strange superstition that to this day induces many a weary and penitent pilgrim, winter and summer alike, to stand often for hours at a time under the rushing waterfall. There they would patiently stand, praying fervently that the icy water, in cleansing and purifying the body would by the intercession of the merciful and all powerful Buddha, thus cleanse and purify the soul within.

De Güldenfeldt lingered for a time beneath the maple and cherry trees, while bright-faced, bright-clothed _nesan_[2] from the picturesque tea-house hard by, brought him tiny cups of Japanese tea, chattering in their happy childish way, with laughter, smiles and bows. He sat there for over an hour thinking deeply, and when at length the sun, sinking behind the hill, warned him that it was time to go, his resolution was formed.

[2] Waiting maids.

He would ask Pearl Nugent to be his wife. After all, what was his profession to him compared with his great absorbing love? It was true that hitherto all had been sacrificed to his career, but that was before he had met Pearl, before the love that now filled his heart had taught him what it really was to live and to enjoy. A marriage such as he contemplated would he knew well, be a hindrance to his profession, and, consequently, a severe blow to his ambitions, but for the time being he banished all thought of personal aggrandisement from his mind, and as he rose and once more tramped across the fields, in Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's blue eyes there was a light, and round his firm lips a smile, that had been strangers there for many a long day.

That same day Mrs. Nugent ordered her carriage and drove round to her cousin's house. She made a point of going to see Mrs. Rawlinson whenever she felt restless or discontented, for Rosina acted on her nerves like a stimulant. To-day when she got there Rosina was not at home, but she found her pretty young cousin Amy Mendovy seated by the open window, sketching Fujiyama with the evening glow upon it.

"Forgive my not getting up, Pearl," the girl said, "but I must finish this before the sun sinks. Have you ever seen Fuji looking more divine? No wonder the Japanese worship the mountain. Just look at it with that hazy, purple light upon it. I have been breaking it gently to Aunt Rosy that I am going to become a Shintoist or a Buddhist, or something."

"Oh, indeed. May I inquire why?"

"So that I may worship Fuji, of course."

"I don't see the connection."

"Oh, don't you? Then you are very dense, my dear. Aren't the Japanese Shintoists or Buddhists? And don't they worship Fuji? Or, if they don't they hold it sacred, which is very much the same thing."

"Don't talk nonsense, Amy. What is the matter with you to-day? You seem so nervous and excited. Why! I declare you have been crying."

No answer, only energetic daubs of green and yellow and carmine, all mixed together on the paper.

"Amy, dear, why have you been crying?" asked Pearl in her soft voice, laying her hand on her cousin's arm.

"Now my dear Pearl, don't be silly; have you ever seen me cry?"

"Yes, often. Tears are as near your eyes as smiles are to your lips, you April day. But tell me, what is wrong?"

"Look here, Pearl," answered Amy, raising her sleek head while her eyes flashed, "I won't be bothered. And if I choose to cry I shall cry, so there."

"Certainly, my dear, and as I came to see Rosina and not you, I have no wish to disturb you in such a profitable occupation. So I'll take my departure. _Addio_," and Pearl turned towards the door.

She hadn't got far, however, before she felt two strong arms round her waist and various energetic kisses upon the back of her neck.

"Come back, Pearl darling. Have some tea and don't be crusty. Why, I have just been longing for you. Aunt Rosy is no good, she doesn't understand me, and never will understand me; so it's no use trying to make her."

"I should like to know who does," said Pearl.

"Well, you do. So I am just going to tell you all about it. Come here and sit on the windowsill. Give me your hand, and let us look at Fuji till the light dies away."

And during a quarter of an hour's silence they watched Fujiyama that rose up dim and indistinct against the setting sun. There it stood in all its solemn majesty, solitary in all its grand repose, superb in all its noble isolation. The dark lights grew fainter and more indistinct, the brilliant blood-red sky with its shifting gleams took paler shades, till little by little it seemed to mingle with the misty colouring of the lonely peak, and behold, even as they watched, night fell, enshrouding all in its vast impenetrable mantle.

"Now, dear," said Pearl, "it's dark, I can hardly see your face, so tell me what is the matter."

Amy rose abruptly and switched on the electric light.

"As to that," she said with a nervous laugh, "pray don't think I am ashamed of being seen. I've done nothing wrong, you know."

"Well, at any rate there's a certain comfort in that affirmation," replied Pearl drily.

"Oh, now you are laughing at me. Never mind, I am accustomed to it." Then, after a pause, "Pearl, he's come back."

"Who's come back?"

"Don't tease. You know whom I mean--Sir Ralph Nicholson, of course."

"Oh, then it was a matter of course that he should come back? Well, continue your confession. He has been here, I suppose?"

"Yes. He told me he returned on purpose to see me, you know. Pearl, he asked me again to be his wife! He was so kind and nice, but he seemed to be so awfully sure that I was going to accept him that I really couldn't help it, but--but--I believe he thinks that I refused him."

"And now you are sorry, I suppose, and have been crying about it. Oh! Amy, Amy! You foolish, foolish girl! Why, you love that man with all your heart. You have never ceased to think of him since he left. And now, when just like in a novel, he turns up again and gives you another chance, you go and throw it away like this. I have no patience with you, Amy, and I don't pity you a bit. You surely ought to understand that Ralph Nicholson is a man in a thousand. A delightful man, a clever man, and, from a worldly point of view, an excellent match. And pray, who are you, Miss, that you should treat him like this? If you didn't care for him it would be another question, but you told me yourself you have never been happy since you said 'no' before. And now--oh! really, I can't tell you what I think, I am so annoyed."

Amy's bright colouring paled while Pearl was speaking. She rose from her seat, and stood with clasped hand and bent head.

"Pearl," she replied, with a break in her voice, "go on--go on scolding me. I feel I deserve every word you say, and you cannot blame me more than I blame myself. I can't think what induced me to behave as I did. But you alone know how sometimes a spirit of contradiction takes possession of me, and when he said, 'I have come back all these thousands of miles to ask you again to be my wife. You will have me this time, won't you, Amy?' I just answered--'And pray, Sir Ralph, why should I answer yes now more than eighteen months ago? The circumstances, I imagine, are just the same as far as I am concerned.'"

"You said that? Good heavens! what cruel creatures women are!" exclaimed Pearl. "And what was his answer?"

"I think he turned very white, and he said--'This, then, is your only answer after--after all this time?'"

"And what did you reply?"

"What did I reply? Oh, nothing."

"Nothing? Oh, Amy!"

"I couldn't, Pearl. But I did the next best thing. I went to the piano and played some bars of a waltz, that waltz of Strauss' to which he and I have danced so much in the old days. Of course, I thought that he would understand by that--that--well--that I didn't mean 'no' exactly. A woman would have understood the _nuance_ in a second, but men are so dense. I put plenty of expression into my playing, too. But when I looked up he was gone!"

Pearl couldn't help laughing at this very original form of replying to an offer of marriage. She took the girl in her arms and kissed her.

"Really, Amy, you are a most extraordinary girl. What other person would think of doing such a thing? You really deserve that he should never come back again. A serious man like Sir Ralph is not to be coquetted with like a boy. He put you a question, a question on which depends the happiness of his life, and all you seem capable of doing is to reply in this flippant manner."

"Don't you think I see all that clearly enough now?" replied Amy mournfully, "and what is worse, there is a mail going out to-morrow--the 'China,' and I'm convinced he'll sail by it. Oh, Pearl! do help me. What am I to do? I can't let him go away again. I really can't."

"Now look here, Amy, if I come to the rescue in this matter--which is far more than you deserve, Miss--will you promise to be guided by me?"

"Well, you know, Pearl," replied Amy, with a mischievous light in her eyes, "I hate making promises, for I no sooner make one than I find _c'est plus fort que moi_, and lo! it is broken. But in this case my own interests are so much at stake that perhaps--perhaps--"

Pearl rose from her seat and began putting on her cloak.

"Oh, Amy, Amy! why will you not be more like other people? You give most people, dear, such an entirely false impression of your real nature. But never mind, I am not going to preach any more to-day. Good-bye! and if Sir Ralph ever has the temerity to ask you again, try and behave for once in your life like a rational being."

Pearl's thoughts were much occupied with Miss Mendovy as she drove home that afternoon. She was extremely attached to her young cousin, and perhaps she sympathised better than most people with the contradictions of that girlish nature.

Amy Mendovy, the only child of a sister of Mrs. Rawlinson's, was left an orphan while still an infant. Rosina adopted her, in every way fulfilling the mother's part. She loved the girl with all her heart. But in spite of her great affection and indeed, genuine admiration, she did not profess in the smallest degree to understand her. Consequently their ideas, habits, and ways of looking at things generally, were hardly what could be called congenial or sympathetic.

Mrs. Rawlinson was a simple-minded creature, and deluded herself with the belief that she was now extremely modern and up-to-date. If the truth were known, she had never entirely recovered from the narrow, Calvinistic training of her youth, a proof of which was particularly shown in the prim, little manner she affected when she thought it necessary to correct her niece. Amy delighted in rousing that manner, indeed, at times her chief joy in life appeared to be that of teasing her aunt. It was only when she had succeeded in finally driving the poor soul to the verge of desperation that she would throw her arms around her neck, coax her, blame herself, ask pardon--in fact, behave generally in such a bewitching _caline_ way, that it would indeed be a stony heart that could resist her, and certainly not the soft organ that Rosina Rawlinson was generally credited with possessing.

Pearl as she drove home, was thinking of this strain of perversity in her cousin's disposition. She confessed to herself that it added greatly to her charm, but nevertheless she deeply regretted this peculiarity, preferring to dwell on those deeper traits in the girl's character which to others were so seldom visible. Under the apparently frivolous, somewhat futile manner, there was a strength, almost a grandeur of soul, the glimpses of which more than once had literally taken away Pearl's breath, so totally had she been unprepared for such an exhibition. It was strange to hear some deep thought expressed by those lips, that seemed formed only for mockery and laughter, and still stranger to see the flash of cold disdain, of righteous scorn, that would fill the dark eyes at the sight of some mean or unworthy action, or at the sound of some paltry, petty speech.

But it was only to very few that the beautiful Miss Mendovy ever showed this finer side of her nature, and to the world at large she was looked upon as a girl of moods--original and impetuous--lovely as a dream, and as heartless as a stone.