PAINS AND PENALTIES.
Sir Ralph Nicholson appeared the next day at Pearl's house in answer to
a note he had found awaiting him on his return from dining at the
Swedish Legation the evening before. Stanislas de Güldenfeldt and he
were old and intimate friends, yet in spite of the fact that he was
feeling bitterly mortified at Miss Mendovy's cool reception, not once
did Amy's name cross his lips in the conversation kept up between the
two men until the early hours of the morning.
De Güldenfeldt, on the contrary, spoke incessantly of Pearl, and Ralph
wondered if his friend had the vaguest idea how much he betrayed himself
in every word he let fall. He gazed at him with amazement. Here was a
man who had been known throughout his career as the most cautious, the
most guarded, and the most reticent of diplomatists, proving by every
remark that passed his lips, in the very expression of his flushed and
handsome face, the thoughts that were evidently entirely monopolising
his mind. For the time being the two men seemed to have changed
personalities, and the more de Güldenfeldt spoke of Pearl, the more
silent and reserved did Nicholson become. He watched him with
half-closed eyes through his cigar smoke, and with a cynicism he had
somewhat adopted of late, found himself pitying what he chose to
designate as his friend's "state of demoralisation."
"Poor old fellow," he thought, "Japan is spoiling him. Three years ago
one would never have heard him maudling about a woman in this ridiculous
way. Good Heavens! what confounded fools these women make of us!"
To Mrs. Nugent the following day he gave expression to almost the same
sentiment, though on that occasion it was entirely in reference to
himself. To her he was as frank and open as he had been reticent to de
Güldenfeldt. Little by little the whole story came out. How it was not
the charm of the scenery of Japan, not its people so clever, brave and
fascinating, not its engrossing art, much as he appreciated beautiful
things, in fact none of these attractions that had recalled him to the
country after a few months absence, but simply the recollection of one
little rebellious curl on Amy Mendovy's white forehead, the distinct and
haunting impression of a seductively mocking expression in the bright
eyes that had induced him to cast all home duties and pleasures to the
winds, and had once more dragged him back to her side.
"And you see, Mrs. Nugent, how I have been rewarded for my constancy.
But then men are such confounded fools! She refused me eighteen months
ago, you know. Nevertheless I always had a faint hope that _au fond_ she
was not so entirely indifferent to me, which proves what a conceited,
fatuous ass I am. Perhaps it is only fair that I should be punished for
my folly."
"And are you so very positive that she does not care for you?" asked
Pearl, looking up into his face with a smile.
"Judge for yourself. If a girl cared two straws for a man, would she in
response to an offer of marriage, after a journey of eleven thousand
miles taken by that unfortunate fellow for her sake, sit down and begin
to strum on the piano? I ask you, would any girl with a scrap of feeling
or of heart do such an outrageous thing?"
"What did she play?"
"How am I to know? And I'm sure I don't care. I have no ear for music.
Something very noisy and jingly, that's all I heard."
"You didn't recognise the waltz you used to dance together, then?" and
Pearl, without looking at him, began putting straight the little ivory
_netsuke_[3] on her mantelpiece.
[3] Carved objects that attach the tobacco pouch.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Ralph, jumping from his seat, "you don't mean to
tell me she was playing _that_! Now you mention it, the tune did seem
familiar to me. You mean, then, that--Good Heavens! I see it all now.
Mrs. Nugent, what an infernal idiot I have been!"
"Yes," said Pearl quietly, "perhaps you have been rather a goose."
"But how the dickens was I to know? Who would ever have imagined she
would act in such an extraordinary way?"
"In all your dealings with that young woman you must bear in mind that
she never does things quite like other people," replied Pearl. "That
must always be taken into consideration, and your own conduct
consequently must be dependent on this knowledge. So, instead of rushing
off to her instantly again, as I see you are dying to do, I should
refrain if I were you."
"But what am I to do?"
"I should simply for a time take absolutely no notice of her, and what
would be better still, and would certainly lead to most excellent
results, get up a mild flirtation with someone else."
Sir Ralph looked serious. "Mrs. Nugent," he said, "I am not a bit that
sort of fellow, you know. I'm really an awful duffer at saying pretty
things to a woman, especially when I don't mean them."
"Never mind, try your best for once in a way. For take my word for it,
if you want Amy as a wife, you must first rouse her _pique_, her
jealousy. She feels far too sure of you now, and she will be surer still
if she finds you have no intention of going off again--as she now half
fears you may do. If I were you, and if really you care to be guided by
me, I should advise you to choose a married woman for your flirtation, a
woman who would be sensible enough not to take too much _au grand
serieux_ any nonsense you may talk."
Sir Ralph Nicholson thrust his hands down into his pockets and walked to
the window. He stood gazing for some moments out on to the cherry trees
shining like pale pink snow in the brilliant sunshine. Then he turned
suddenly round and faced Pearl.
"Mrs. Nugent," he said, "I have something on my mind which I must tell
you. May I?"
"Certainly," replied Pearl quietly, "I am accustomed to receiving
confidences. What is it?"
"Oh, it is not a confidence. It is something about--about you--this
time. At least I mean not about you, but about--Martinworth."
Pearl rose from her seat, and going up to Ralph clutched nervously at
his sleeve.
"What is it?" she asked breathlessly, while she turned very pale.
"Is--is he dead?"
"Dead! Good Heavens! No. He was in the most flourishing state of health
when I saw him last in Paris, but he has nevertheless dished himself
pretty considerably. He is--he is--you must know sooner or later--he
is--married, and--and--what's more, he is coming out here."
"He is married and he is coming out here!" Pearl echoed the words in a
dull voice as she stared into Sir Ralph's sympathetic face. "Dick
married and coming out here with his wife! Good God! what shall I do?"
and she remained motionless with her distressed eyes fixed on Nicholson.
"My dear Mrs. Nugent--my dear lady," blundered Ralph, "please don't look
like that. For God's sake, I implore you to sit down!
Say--do--something. I wish I hadn't told you. But I thought it best, for
of course, you are bound to meet them if they come here. So I thought--I
thought you had better be prepared. But confound it all! I would have
risked anything rather than that you should have taken it so badly."
This last phrase roused Pearl from the dismay and stupefaction
experienced on first hearing Nicholson's unexpected news. She managed to
smile while she nervously put her hand to her forehead and pushed back
the curls of her hair. After all, who was Sir Ralph that she should
betray herself like this? A friend, it is true; a valued friend who knew
her history; but that was no reason why he should also become acquainted
with her heart. With an effort that cost her much she was successful in
recovering a certain amount of control over her features. She sat down
with her back to the light, and, taking a book from a table, began
turning over the leaves.
"Your news naturally interests me much," she said in a voice that she
succeeded in rendering almost indifferent. "Of course, at first it took
me by surprise. I--I'm sure I don't know why--but I--I--never thought
Lord Martinworth would marry. Whom--whom has he? Sir Ralph, would you
mind telling me if his wife is anyone I know? Whom has he married?"
Alas! for Pearl's reputation for imperturbability, these last questions
were asked in a very low, a very unsteady voice.
"Oh yes, you know her. You must have seen her knocking about Town for a
dozen seasons at least. He has married that extraordinary type: his
cousin, Lady Harriet Joyce; the large, fair one, who generally goes by
the name of 'Harry'"----
"Harry Joyce! Oh yes, I remember her," said Pearl quietly.
"She has run him down at last. She and her people have been trying it on
for years, you know."
Pearl did not reply. When she next spoke it was excessively calmly, on a
totally different subject.
But oh, the bitterness of it all! She sat and thought it all over when
Sir Ralph had left her. So Martinworth had forgotten her so soon--so
soon! And yet, she thought, ought she to blame him? Ought she not,
instead of feeling this sentiment of utter despondency, utter disgust,
be rejoicing that Martinworth by this step could henceforth no longer be
anything nearer to her than an ordinary friend, an ordinary
acquaintance? She accused herself over and over again for her
inconsistency. She told herself that she was absurd, illogical,
unreasonable. Had she not fled from this man--hidden herself from
him--for the express purpose that he should forget her? Had she not
advised him to marry some woman who could show an honest front to the
world, and be a credit to him? And now that apparently after some delay
he had obeyed her injunctions, what right had she to complain, to
regret, to feel angry and bitter, and to cavil against the inconstancy
of man?
Pearl's thoughts turned before long from herself and Martinworth to the
girl he had married. At last she experienced the satisfaction of being
able to give full vent to her anger and disappointment. To think that it
was _she_--that it was Harry Joyce whom he had chosen as his wife out of
all the women of his world! That elderly young lady whose whole soul was
wrapped up in guns and horses, in motor cars and rational costumes.
Harry Joyce, who never opened a book, and whose newspaper and magazine
reading was confined to the racing calendar and to the sporting
journals. Harry of the strident voice and weather-beaten countenance,
whose ordinary way of greeting her intimates of the opposite sex was to
call them by their nick-names, and to slap them on the back. A woman who
disregarded all the ordinary usages of society, every outward form of
conventionalism, and yet, because she was the only daughter of a Duke,
was not only time after time forgiven, but what was more, was accepted
as a matter of course, and in her frequent eccentricities was never at a
loss to find in either sex both followers and admirers.
"Perhaps she has improved now, but she used to be a horrible girl,"
exclaimed Pearl aloud, and rising from her chair she paced up and down
the room. "Dick always told me he detested her, and was ashamed to
acknowledge her as his cousin. And to think of his committing the
enormity of marrying such a woman. He must be mad! They haven't got a
single idea in common. In old days he cordially hated the emancipated
female. Some men of course find that sort of thing amusing. I have heard
her called more than once 'A capital fellow,' but imagine Dick, my Dick,
with such a wife! Imagine Dick uniting his lot with 'A capital fellow!'
Every word she will utter, every action, every gesture, will grate on
his nerves--will horrify and disgust him. Oh, what could have possessed
him to ruin his life by such an outrageous marriage?"
For many days did Pearl ponder over this problem, till at last she
arrived at what was perhaps more or less the right solution. Would she
have been human if, having decided in her own mind the reason for this
marriage, she did not at the bottom of her heart feel a sneaking
satisfaction that the wife he had taken was after all the masculine and
unattractive Lady Harriet Joyce, and not the sweet and innocent and
beautiful maid whom she herself had prescribed?
Nevertheless, in spite of any slight comfort she may have succeeded in
deriving from this thought, poor Pearl felt very sore and very forlorn,
and when a few days later Monsieur de Güldenfeldt offered her his hand
and his heart, she was more than half inclined to yield to the
temptation of accepting a man who in positive terms assured her of his
love, and who could give her not only a much-to-be-desired, but what was
more, a safe and tangible position.
Stanislas had, on the occasion referred to, accompanied her in her ride,
and they had stopped at a little tea-house to rest themselves and their
horses. They wandered off on foot through a grove of bamboos, and the
conversation turning on Ralph Nicholson's unexpected return to the
country, Pearl found herself speaking with considerable feeling, of his
constancy to her erratic young cousin.
"Nevertheless I have given him a piece of very worldly and very wicked
advice," she said with her pretty laugh--"I told him to get up a mild
flirtation with a married woman."
"Why married?" asked de Güldenfeldt.
"Because if he has no serious intentions, what's the good of
compromising a girl? Girls fall in love so easily; whereas married
women," she added with a sigh, "know so well how to look after
themselves."
Monsieur de Güldenfeldt did not reply for a moment. Then he stopped in
his walk, and gazing at his companion, asked somewhat gravely:
"Mrs. Nugent, are you quite sure that all married women know so very
well how to take care of themselves?"
"I think," answered Pearl in a low voice, "if, as I judge from your
question you are thinking of me, I really know pretty well how to look
out for myself. But then, of course my position is different from the
majority of married women. I am a sort of anomaly, and have had the sad
necessity of learning the lesson how to protect my poor battered self. I
confess, at times I have found it a somewhat difficult task. But I feel
sure I have mastered it thoroughly now. It has been a case of _force
majeure_, you see." And tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at
him.
Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's heart swelled as, glancing at this beautiful
woman with the troubled face, he thought of the unhappiness of her past
life, and of her present dignity and courage. He stopped again, and
seized hold of her hands.
"Mrs. Nugent--Pearl," he said in a deep voice, "instead of for the
future fighting your own battles, dear, will you let me fight them for
you? Will you marry me? Will you let me have the gratification of being
in the blesséd position of having the right to protect you? Of shielding
you from evil tongues, and of trying to render you the happy woman you
deserve to be?"
The colour flew into Pearl's cheeks, but she did not withdraw her hands
from his. She looked at him, extreme astonishment depicted on her face.
"You are asking me to marry you?" she said, "you--you----?"
"Yes--I love you deeply, and my greatest desire on earth is to make you
my wife. Why should you be so surprised at that? Why, Pearl?"
For a minute Pearl looked down into the blue eyes that, full of
tenderness, were resting on her face. She gazed at them as if trying to
penetrate their very depths. They were kind, true eyes, she thought; but
she withdrew her hands gently from his, and turned away with a sigh.
"No," she said, "I can never marry you. Oh! that I could--that I could!
Do you know," she added hastily, without waiting for the reply that she
saw trembling on his lips, "do you know, Monsieur de Güldenfeldt, that I
think you one of the best, one of the most generous of men. You are
offering me everything. I, who can give so little--nothing in return."
"I ask you for much: for your love, Pearl. Will you not give it to me,
dear?"
Pearl did not reply. Her thoughts travelled as fast as the clouds above
her. Why after all should she not accept him? It was a brilliant offer;
an offer that a woman placed as she was placed could never in her
wildest dreams have thought probable, or even possible. By marrying de
Güldenfeldt she was perfectly aware that her position in society, which
now hung on so delicate a thread, would become regular and secure. He
knew her story. She had no inconvenient confessions to make. He was
evidently willing to take the risk of all future possible contingencies,
and of his love and tenderness and regard she felt no doubt. Lord
Martinworth would come and would find her engaged, or married; and for
one brief moment Pearl experienced a glow of satisfaction at the thought
that her former lover on his arrival, would find her, not pining or
regretting, not angry or dismayed, but in the proud position of a happy
and a triumphant wife. But this thought was instantly crushed as
unworthy. She blushed to think she had ever entertained it, and she told
herself that the natural grief, or _pique_, or whatever it was she felt
in connection with Lord Martinworth's marriage, must have no influence
on her present decision--must, in no way whatsoever, affect that answer
which she knew she must give within the next few minutes.
De Güldenfeldt was, she was well aware, a clever and a good man; a man
of a certain present and of a brilliant future; a man that any woman
might be proud to call husband; and here he stood, offering her--a poor
waif and stray in society--his love and his name. And yet she felt that
it was beyond her to accept these gifts offered thus generously. Why?
she hardly asked herself. Was it because she still loved
Martinworth?--Perhaps--she could not tell. But of one thing she felt
convinced, she did not love, could never love, Stanislas de Güldenfeldt.
She admired and respected and liked him more than she admired or liked
most men. She delighted in his society and in his conversation, which
was full of piquant anecdote, intellect and charm. She felt absolutely
contented, thoroughly at ease in his companionship, which acted as a
stimulant in her otherwise somewhat monotonous life. She did not
disguise from herself for a moment the many advantages she was
renouncing in setting aside this offer, and yet Pearl felt that it was
absolutely impossible for her to accept him, for if she did she would
she knew, be true neither to de Güldenfeldt, whom she liked so well,
nor, above all, true to herself.
By this time the two were seated on a little bamboo bench, and de
Güldenfeldt, waiting and watching with anxiety the expressive face, half
guessed and wholly feared the struggle that was being fought within. He
rose hurriedly.
"Don't say anything, don't speak now," he exclaimed, "Wait, Pearl. Take
your time to consider, but remember, my darling--I may call you so this
once?--that my whole life's future, my whole life's happiness, depends
on your answer."
Pearl felt greatly tempted to abide by this advice and to delay. As he
gave her this chance, why commit herself by answering at once? But her
hesitation lasted only a minute. Her natural candour and frankness of
disposition warned her it would be more than cowardly to postpone her
refusal. She turned towards him and said in her low voice:
"Monsieur de Güldenfeldt, it is best you should know at once that which
always must be known, for I know my decision can never change. I fear it
is--it must be--'No.' I can never marry you. For your own sake it must
be so, for I do not love you as you should--as you deserve to be loved.
My liking, my respect, my admiration is unbounded, but love--forgive me
for paining you--such as I have known the word, is not, can never be
mine to give you."
De Güldenfeldt let his keen blue eyes rest for a minute on Pearl's
flushed face, then without a single word in reply--with a quick,
impatient shrug of the shoulders--without a moment's hesitation he
turned and strode abruptly away.
Left by herself on the bench, Mrs. Nugent watched this precipitate
departure with considerable dismay. She had seen and known the Swedish
Minister in many moods. Ironical, pensive, bubbling over with good
spirits one day, melancholy and depressed the next, but, so far, she
never remembered having been a witness to his anger. She gazed after him
now with genuine consternation, as he paced the little path with his
head thrown back, and his hands thrust well down into the pockets of his
riding breeches. Her spirits sank as the minutes passed, and he finally
disappeared from view. Eventually the sentiment of trepidation that had
at first seized her changed to that of irritation and considerable
annoyance. After all, she thought, she had answered him as gently as
surely, in the circumstances, it was possible to reply, and the more she
considered the question, the more did a feeling of extreme vexation and
surprise overcome her at her refusal being received in this apparently
intensely angry and rebellious spirit.
Women at best are but unreasonable creatures, and Mrs. Nugent was no
exception to the rule, forgetting to make allowances for the necessary
blow that such a prompt refusal must certainly inflict on a man of
Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's proud and rather unyielding disposition. On
his side he was fully aware of the many and great advantages of his
offer, and of the sacrifices on his part that such a marriage would
entail. It had by no means been fear of failure alone that had prevented
him from suggesting a connection of a possibly too unbinding or
temporary nature. Since his final determination to make this marriage,
he had learnt that the great love he bore Pearl would in itself,
independent of any other reason, be sufficient to cause him to reject
the former idea with promptitude and distaste. He did not however,
disguise from himself that, situated as she was, nine men out of ten
would have hesitated before offering her their name. He himself had
deliberated and paused before taking this step, but having once, with
complete disregard of his future, proposed to give up all for her, he
found it impossible to recover from the mortification that her abrupt
rejection of his offer, and the refusal for one moment even to consider
his proposal, had caused him.
Stanislas, greatly angered and deep in thought, strode on and on. It was
only the fact of unexpectedly finding himself once more at the tea-house
that roused him from his vexatious thoughts, recalling to him the fact
of his hasty departure, and unceremonious desertion of Pearl.
He then and there retraced his steps, and found her where he had left
her on the bench, with a heightened colour, and a look of decided
reproach in her eyes. He was very pale as he lifted his hat to her.
"Pardon me for leaving you alone," he merely said. "Shall we return now.
It is getting chilly."
Pearl rose without a word. She followed humbly, feeling somewhat like a
naughty child in disgrace. It was not long before her pride rebelled
against this sentiment, so unpleasantly novel to her, and though her
voice trembled, and her throat felt rough and dry, she nerved herself to
break the prolonged and awkward silence.
"I don't think you are treating me very well," she said rather
defiantly. "You did me the honour to ask me a question, and I replied in
the only way that seemed possible to me. I can only say I grieve if it
was not the answer you appear evidently to have expected."
Monsieur de Güldenfeldt did not speak. He merely slowly raised his head,
and with his searching eyes gave Pearl one long and steadfast look. This
look had the unpleasant effect of causing Mrs. Nugent to sincerely wish
she had bitten her tongue out sooner than have ventured to break the
silence.