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.