ON THE VERGE OF THE UNKNOWN.
The exaltation, indecision, and agony of mind experienced by Pearl for
the last fortnight culminated in a general breakdown.
Towards dawn of the next day Amy, sleeping in the adjoining room, was
roused from slumber by sounds of talking in Pearl's apartment. The walls
of Tokyo houses are proverbially thin, even those constructed on
European principles, and as Pearl was talking loud, every word she said
could easily be overheard. A short time sufficed to rouse Amy from her
bed, and in a minute she was in the next room. There to her horror she
found Pearl in night attire, with wide-open staring eyes, her glorious
hair streaming down her back, pacing frantically up and down the room,
uttering muttered sounds and incoherent words and exclamations.
Amy was genuinely terrified at the appearance of those wild eyes and
flushed cheeks, at the smothered cries and the constant stream of
senseless words. All her attempts to calm her cousin and to lead her
back to bed proving fruitless, she lost no time in awakening the
household, and ere long she was in telephonic communication with both
Mrs. Rawlinson and the nearest doctor.
Before the arrival of these persons, Amy had however, succeeded in
persuading Pearl to return to bed, where, with the help of the terrified
_amahs_,[10] and by holding her down by main force, she had so far
managed to keep her. No prayers or entreaties however, seemed to have
the slightest effect on the distracted mind, or soothing movements to
influence the restless body.
[10] Maids.
It did not take long for the doctor to make his diagnosis. A sudden and
acute attack of brain fever was the verdict.
"Mrs. Nugent must have passed through some great and unexpected shock or
struggle to have undergone such a sudden and complete collapse," he
gravely remarked. "I must ask to be allowed to call in Dr. Takayama in
consultation. I find it impossible to say how the malady may turn."
And then followed days and nights, aye, weeks of anxious watching. For
long, not only Pearl's reason but life itself was despaired of. Terrible
was the consternation caused by this news among the many who loved and
admired, and even those who at one time may have disliked and envied the
beautiful Mrs. Nugent. Her magnificent hair was sacrificed. Amy wept hot
tears as she watched the scissors performing their ruthless task. She
gathered the thick masses up in her arms, and separating one glossy
auburn lock from the rest, enclosed it in an envelope. The direction
bore the name of Lord Martinworth, and on the note paper that surrounded
the tress were scribbled these five words:--"She is very ill--dying."
But that note was fated never to be forwarded to its destination. Amy's
impulses, though generally erring on the side of generosity and good
nature, were frequently, for this very reason, unwise. On the rare
occasions, however, that she gave herself time to consider, she seldom
did a foolish thing. A trifling incident prevented her sending the
communication and its enclosure that day, and the next saw it safely
committed to the recesses of a drawer, from which it was only extracted
several months later, under circumstances that brought back many a vivid
and painful memory.
'It is an ill wind that blows no one any good.' Pearl's dangerous
illness had at least one beneficial and unexpected result--that of
proving the means of an ultimate meeting and a complete reconciliation
between Amy and Ralph Nicholson. Not a day passed without the latter
calling to inquire after Pearl. Amy however, busy with her aunt in the
sick room, had never chanced to see him, and it was only when Pearl's
illness had lasted almost a month, and the doctors had lifted the awful
weight from their minds by at last finding a slight improvement in her
condition, that an encounter between the two at length took place.
Mrs. Rawlinson had sent Amy out into the garden for a breath of fresh
air, and the girl was seated under the shade of the great stone lantern
by the side of the miniature lake, watching the gold fish darting in and
out among the rocks, and pondering sadly over the distress and the
gnawing anxiety of the past weeks. Great tears were flowing down her
cheeks, which were pale and drawn. She fixed her eyes on Fujiyama, hazy
and indistinct in the afternoon sun, and she wondered mournfully whether
poor Pearl would ever gaze at her beloved mountain again. There was one
little fleecy cloud hovering over the summit. It was snowy white, with a
silver edge, and Amy found herself dreamily comparing this mystical,
almost transparent cloud to Pearl's pure, unsullied soul. Her eyelids
drooped. She wondered and wept no more, for Amy slept the sleep of utter
exhaustion.
It was fully an hour later when she opened her eyes to find Ralph
Nicholson standing by her side.
"Poor little thing," he said sorrowfully, as she started up from her
chair, "how sad, how weary you look. Go to sleep again. I will leave
you. But first tell me, how is she to-day?"
Amy brushed away the tears that were still wet on her eyelids.
"The doctors see a slight improvement," she replied. "The fever is, they
say, a shade lower. But she seems no better to auntie and myself. Oh!
Sir Ralph, I am sure she will die. She cannot resist. It has been going
on so long now. She is still delirious at times, and I know the fever is
gradually but surely wearing her away."
Ralph looked at the sweet face, on which all the joy and sparkle had
died out, and on which grief for the time being had made such havoc. And
as he looked, he knew that he had never admired, that he had never loved
Amy Mendovy as he admired and loved her to-day in this soft and saddened
mood.
He sat down on the grass beside her chair and took her hand between his
own.
Amy did not withdraw it.
"Amy, dear," he said very quietly, "I cannot tell you how unhappy I am.
It is awful to me to see your grief, for, as you know--you know it well
Amy, though you never would listen to me--I love you, and have loved you
for long, darling. May I share your trouble with you, Amy? May I help
you to bear it a little? Will you be kind to me, and after my long
waiting give me the right to do this?"
Amy never quite knew how it occurred, but shortly after this request she
found her head leaning on Ralph's shoulder, while that individual was
busily employed in kissing away the tears--tears whether now of joy or
of sorrow,--it was somewhat difficult to tell.
But Amy would not have been a woman, and certainly not Amy Mendovy, if
before her lover left her that day, she had not satisfied herself as to
the future disposal of the lady whom she chose to consider as her rival.
"And Lady Martinworth?" she inquired, "what are you going to do about
her? You will, I suppose, be kind enough to stop going about with her
and flirting, now that you have at last made up your mind to be engaged
to me. Oh! Ralph, you don't care for her really, do you?"
Ralph laughed and twirled his black moustache, as he looked down into
the flushed face.
"Nobody," he replied, "has ever yet accused me of ingratitude. I
certainly have no intention of casting off Lady Martinworth, for she has
done me an uncommonly good turn."
"What do you mean?" inquired Amy, on the defensive at once.
"Simply that my flirtation, not that it deserves such a name--for Lady
Martinworth, let me tell you, darling, hasn't got the remotest notion as
to what flirting means--our--late--intercourse, was nothing more nor
less than a pre-arranged plan formed with Mrs. Nugent to produce the
desired result of bringing you, Miss Mendovy, to your senses. I couldn't
have got on much longer without you, you know. So we had to contrive
some means by which you should learn to know your own mind. It was Mrs.
Nugent's happy notion that I should try to make you jealous, Amy. She is
ill now, so you must forgive her, you know. And as for me, I don't care
if you forgive me or not, for now that you have once said 'yes,' you
won't find it very easy to get rid of me again. I can tell you that."
Of course, Amy wasted a good deal of breath in pointing out that she had
never for a single instant experienced the sentiment of jealousy, a
sentiment for which, she assured him, she had indeed the very greatest
contempt. She took some little trouble to explain that she had merely
felt considerable regret that Ralph should have--well--caused gossip, by
allowing his name to be coupled with that of a married woman. In fact,
she begged he would understand that her anxiety from the first had been
solely for the condition of his morals, and she seized this opportunity
to deliver quite an eloquent little homily on the iniquity of
flirtations in general, and with married women in particular. To all of
which words of wisdom Ralph listened attentively, the effect, however,
being somewhat marred, in Amy's opinion, by a persistent and most
apparent twinkle in the dark eyes. She inwardly wondered if he could by
any possibility be laughing at her, and she felt that she really had
some right to be aggrieved, when, after her lecture, which had lasted
fully five minutes, he merely said in reply that Lady Martinworth was a
real good soul, and though he perfectly understood Amy being somewhat
prejudiced against her for the moment, he had not the slightest doubt
that eventually the two would become the closest of friends.
"She is the kindest-hearted, straightest woman I know," he added, "and
she really has an awfully sad life. Martinworth doesn't care two straws
for her. He is away now--went off weeks ago, and never offered to take
her with him. She is terribly lonely, for she knows very few people
here. I think you might take pity on her, darling, and chum up a bit
with her."
Which tactless and unfortunate suggestion was met with the severity it
deserved.
Miss Mendovy regretted, but she really did not think that she and Lady
Martinworth were likely to prove congenial. From her childhood she had
possessed a strong dislike for mannish women. And though, of course, she
could not but feel sorry for the poor thing's solitude, she really
feared that just at present, with her mind and hands so full of dear
Pearl, she would have but little spare time to devote to outsiders. This
fact reminded Amy that it was impossible to waste further precious
moments in talking about a person who really interested her so very
slightly, so that if Ralph would excuse her, she would go and relieve
her aunt in the sick room.
But Amy was not allowed to depart just yet. Sir Ralph was wise enough to
see that he had--to use his own phraseology--"put his foot into it," and
he mentally decided that, for the future, Lady Martinworth's name should
figure as little as possible in his and Amy's conversations.
He promptly made up for lost time. And when Amy parted from him a
quarter of an hour later the radiance of her face proved that, certainly
for the time being, the fact that such an annoying person as Lady
Martinworth existed was entirely obliterated from her mind.
Meanwhile, Sir Ralph Nicholson had spoken the truth when he announced
that the lady discussed was an unhappy woman, though perhaps he would
have been more accurate if he had contented himself by saying that she
was an intensely bored woman. She hated Tokyo, and, for that reason
alone, she had been somewhat disappointed when her husband had started
on his travels without her. As for his indifference to her
companionship, she was too much accustomed to that state of things to
greatly worry herself on that score. It was only on very rare occasions,
such as the day when she had unbosomed herself to Pearl, that she would
allow the fact of her husband's want of affection to distress her.
"Harry" Martinworth was essentially practical, and if only she had been
able to indulge in some amusement more or less congenial to her tastes
to occupy her spare time, she would certainly never have troubled
herself about what, by bitter experience, she knew to be the inevitable.
But here she was, planted down in a Tokyo hotel, with scarcely an
acquaintance in the whole of Japan save Sir Ralph and the members of the
English Legation. Art of any kind had no interest for her, the
collecting of curios held out no inducement, and such scenery as had
come under her notice she loudly declared was absurdly overrated. Later
on, it was her ambition to climb Fuji-yama, Nantaisan, Asama-yama or any
other mountain that might happen to come in her way, but as yet it was
far too early in the year to think of such strenuous expeditions.
Meanwhile, there were two or three sights which Lady Martinworth
concluded were really worth her consideration--the game of polo, as it
is played in Japan, the fencing, and the wrestling matches. Over the
description of the latter she grew quite enthusiastic. The fact that
these matches are not greatly patronised by the presence of ladies was
alone sufficient to encourage Lady Martinworth in witnessing the
performance as often as she could get a chance. She felt no disgust. On
the contrary, she experienced intense admiration at the sight of these
gigantic naked men, with their rolls of fat, and their huge muscles
standing out like cords, and at each fresh feat of strength her
enthusiasm increased. If all Japanese had been built on the same
Herculean lines as the wrestlers, Lady Martinworth's admiration for the
race would have been unbounded, but, as it was, for the natives
generally her Ladyship expressed that contempt which to say the least is
to be pitied as the outcome of ignorance, and of an insular and
unenquiring mind.
She told Sir Ralph she could not see what there was in Japan to make
such a fuss about. She launched into politics, and prophesied complete
annihilation if the country ever went to war with Russia. If the
Japanese were as enlightened and advanced as was said, why on earth
hadn't they made decent golf-links in Tokyo? What could one think of a
people who actually didn't know the meaning of the word "sport" in its
everyday sense. As for their women, it was positively laughable to think
of them as never taking any form of exercise, merely contenting
themselves by driving in 'rickshas with the hood up, or in carriages
that were closed. On very rare occasions they did walk a few steps, she
had been told, but then, was it not a dutiful and humble couple of yards
behind the husband? Again, what possibly could be the charm of the
Japanese woman for the European man was a mystery altogether beyond her
comprehension. A soft, purring kitten of a creature who could only
smile, acquiesce in everything, make gentle little phrases, and have
pretty manners! Ralph ventured to remark that it was probably these very
attributes, so unusual and so soothing, that proved their undoubted
fascination and their charm. But at this assertion he was met with such
a stony stare of amazement that he reddened. On the virtues and
attractiveness of the Japanese woman, and the courage and perspicacity,
the cleverness and far-seeing proclivities of the Japanese people
generally, on which subjects Nicholson held the very strongest opinions,
he, in all future discussions with Lady Martinworth, from henceforth
held his peace.
As an amusement, therefore, Lady Martinworth's bicycle proved almost her
only resource. Even there she was doomed to a certain amount of
disappointment, for she had not reckoned on the extreme variableness of
the Japanese climate. It developed into a rainy spring. On certain days
the roads in and around Tokyo were practically impassable, and this
inconvenience increased her contempt for a nation whose Town
Municipality was certainly at that time, permitted so completely to
neglect its duties. A cloudless day, perfect in the brilliancy and
clearness of its atmosphere, would however, put a temporary stop to her
grumblings, and, seizing these rare opportunities, and commanding Sir
Ralph to accompany her, Lady Martinworth would promptly don her
bloomers, straightway sallying forth on a bicycle ride of many miles.
These expeditions, on the whole, suited Ralph's particular frame of
mind, for they all took place before his engagement to Amy Mendovy. They
would ride long distances without exchanging a word, which gave him
plenty of time for reflection and for forming various projects and plans
for the future, which, even at this time, he ventured to think, might
possibly prove not altogether so absolutely despairing and hopeless.
While resting themselves at some _chaya_, or tea house, or while seated
beneath the shade of a knoll of pines, or within the shadows of a bamboo
grove, in the seclusion of which nestled many a picturesque Buddhist or
Shinto shrine, Ralph would lay himself out to be agreeable to his
companion. And, indeed, he found her capital company, and if the
conversations did invariably turn on the subject of sport in some form
or other, he was all the better pleased. For Ralph was a keen sportsman,
and in "Harry" Martinworth, whose love for all kinds of out-door
avocations was without affectation--and whose proficiency therein was
indisputable--he found a genuine kindred spirit.
It was during one of these expeditions that he happened to mention the
fact of his friend Mrs. Nugent's illness. He had not forgotten the
Cherry party, nor the antagonistic and disdainful glances in which the
ladies had indulged at the time, and consequently he had so far
purposely avoided bringing Pearl's name into their conversations. One
day, however, when poor Pearl was at her very worst, he proved such a
dull companion--so pre-occupied, that Lady Martinworth's curiosity was
aroused, and after some difficulty, she succeeded in extracting the
reason of his persistent and melancholy silence.
To Ralph's surprise, his companion, on ascertaining the state of
affairs, promptly turned her bicycle round, the only explanation she
deigned to offer for this spasmodic movement being her intention of
going forthwith to Mrs. Nugent's house to see what could be done for
her.
"But I was not aware that you were acquainted with her," was Ralph's
remark, as they raced along homewards.
"Of course I know her. She is a dear friend of mine. You don't suppose
that I'm going to let her die, do you, when I'm here on the spot and
able to nurse her?"
Considering what he knew of the circumstances, it was perhaps not
surprising that Nicholson should raise his eyebrows, smiling discreetly
at what in this statement certainly somewhat savoured of exaggeration.
Lady Martinworth did not, however, vouchsafe any further explanation,
but remained silent for the rest of their journey home.
True to her word, she bade adieu to Sir Ralph at the hotel, and cycled
straight to Pearl's house, where she had considerable difficulty in
making the "boy" understand, from her broken Japanese, her desire to see
the patient, but finally succeeded in gaining admission to the
drawing-room. She sent up her card, and after a certain length of time
Mrs. Rawlinson made her appearance.
At the first glance the two women proved antagonistic. Indeed, in
Rosina's case it was quite sufficient for a person to bear the detested
name of Martinworth for her to buckle on her armour, acting at once on
the defensive.
"I have come to see Mrs. Nugent," said Lady Martinworth abruptly. "Will
you be so good as to take me to her? I could not succeed in making that
stupid servant understand that I wished to see her."
"The 'boy' was only obeying his orders," replied Mrs. Rawlinson
brusquely, as her eyes travelled over the extraordinary figure before
her. Lady Martinworth was still adorned in her cycling bloomers, and
with her cropped head, man's shirt, and motor cap it was more difficult
than ever to distinguish her from a member of the sterner sex. "He was
told not to allow anyone into the house. My cousin, Mrs. Nugent, is
permitted to see no one."
"But she sees you?"
"Surely, that is a totally different matter," replied Rosina coldly. "I
am her cousin. My niece, Miss Mendovy, and I divide the nursing between
us."
"Let me help you to nurse her. You may not know, Mrs. Rawlinson, but I
am a certificated nurse. Taking up nursing was a mere whim, but
nevertheless I was for some time nurse in the London Hospital. Do let me
undertake her case?"
Rosina softened. "It is very good of you to propose such a thing, Lady
Martinworth, and I appreciate the kindness of heart that prompts you to
make the offer. But we have an excellent trained Japanese nurse to help
us, and I could not think of taking up your time. Besides--besides----"
Rosina paused, as, in spite of herself, her eyes once more became
riveted on the bloomers.
"Oh, well! of course, I shouldn't dream of nursing her in this rig-out,
if that's what you mean by staring at my knickerbockers," exclaimed Lady
Martinworth. "However, surely my garments are a mere matter of detail in
such a question of vital importance. Let me be of some little use, Mrs.
Rawlinson. Do let me assist in nursing your cousin. She has been very
kind and good to me, and I have had so little kindness shown to me in my
lifetime that I should like to do something to prove that I appreciate
it, when it does happen to come in my way."
Lady Martinworth's offer was however, kindly but firmly declined. Rosina
told Amy later, that when she saw the look of disappointment that
overshadowed the plain countenance she found herself on the point of
relenting. Perhaps, being naturally soft-hearted, she might have acceded
in the end to Lady Martinworth's desire and have enlisted her aid. The
incongruity of such a proceeding struck her, however, with particular
force when she recalled to mind the former state of affairs between Mrs.
Nugent and the lady's husband, and she remained firm in her refusal.
The proposal offered so frankly and naturally, though declined,
nevertheless won Mrs. Rawlinson's heart, and during the rest of the
visit there was a marked change in her manner. They parted quite good
friends. And though Lady Martinworth was not allowed to undertake the
duties of nurse, she showed her desire to be useful and kind in many
other ways. Every morning a large basket of flowers would arrive from
the hotel, "With Lady Martinworth's kind enquiries," and later on,
during Pearl's convalescence, she would send every delicacy within the
hotel cook's capability, and her visits to the patient became, as time
went on, more and more frequent.
But at the period of Lady Martinworth's invasion there was no question
of convalescence, and for many days both Pearl's life and her reason
hung in the balance. But at length she took a slight turn for the
better, her malady yielded to treatment, and her naturally strong
constitution, conquering in the end, one day, shortly after Amy's
engagement to Sir Ralph, she was pronounced by the physicians to be out
of danger. It was, nevertheless, many, many weeks before Mrs. Nugent was
allowed to be moved from her room. When at length she was lifted
downstairs, absolute quiet and freedom from excitement were still
prescribed. Indeed, the tranquillity insisted on appeared to be the
culmination of Pearl's desires. She would lie on her sofa on the
verandah silent for hours, her eyes fixed on the beds of purple and
snow-white irises bending their graceful heads in the gentle breeze, or
on the distant view of Fujiyama, shadowy and dim in the hot June sun.
It was only after many days that Rosina ventured to bring up Lady
Martinworth's name, and the eagerness of that lady to see her.
At the mention of that name, which recalled so much that she would fain
forget, Pearl half rose on her sofa, and the cheeks, now so thin and
pale, flushed.
"Is she alone?" she asked in a low voice.
"Yes. Lord Martinworth is still away. He has been away over two months
now, since the day that you were taken ill."
There was a pause as Pearl threw herself back wearily on to her
cushions.
"I cannot see her," she said at length, "I am too weak. She--she is so
jerky--so abrupt. She--she would fatigue me."
Mrs. Rawlinson did not press the point. But she was not greatly
surprised when some days later Pearl after a long silence, quietly
suggested that if Lady Martinworth called again, she would receive her.
Henceforth commenced a series of visits which eventually proved of great
pleasure and of a certain amount of profit to both women. Lord
Martinworth's name was by tacit consent never mentioned, and when Pearl
realised that no danger from that quarter was to be feared, she allowed
herself to show genuine satisfaction at his wife's presence in her
house.
It must be confessed Lady Martinworth deserved considerable credit for
the tact and cleverness she exhibited in amusing the invalid. Greatly as
both Rosina and Amy might wonder at this strange and unexpected
friendship, they could not but feel grateful for each smile which the
visitor, with her quaint and caustic remarks, would succeed in conjuring
up on the pale, sad face.
But Lady Martinworth was not the only person admitted to Pearl's
presence during this period of convalescence. De Güldenfeldt had
returned from his travels at the very moment Mrs. Nugent's condition was
considered the most critical, and he had hardly put foot in Tokyo before
he was met with the news of her almost hopeless condition. This
distressing information accomplished at one stroke what months of
absence, of distraction, and of meditation had failed to do. Stanislas
straightway forgot the fact that for long he had borne a bitter grudge
against this woman, who had treated both him and his proposal with such
calm and complete indifference. Not only all his love, but all his
sympathies, all his fears for her safety, were aroused at this crushing
news, and in spite of the accumulation of work awaiting him on his
return, he found he could put his mind to nothing while Mrs. Nugent's
fate hung in the balance. He haunted the house, sitting for hours in the
drawing-room alone, or pacing the garden, till Amy or Rosina taking pity
on him, would steal a minute from their duties to inform him how the
patient was progressing, or to give him the doctor's latest report.
It was during this miserable period that Rosina guessed his secret.
Indeed, a child could have read it, for it was easy enough to divine,
and de Güldenfeldt himself made next to no attempt to disguise his
feelings. One day, in a specially despairing mood, he went so far as to
hint to Mrs. Rawlinson what had passed between him and Pearl. He found a
sympathetic listener, and consequently ended by confiding all those
cherished hopes which had met with so unexpected and so disastrous a
termination.
Like all large-hearted women, Rosina was somewhat of a matchmaker. At a
glance she saw the many advantages that Pearl had thrown away in this
refusal of Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's love and protection. Promptly she
decided in her own mind that if her cousin should be spared, it would
certainly not be her--Rosina Rawlinson's--fault if matters were not one
day brought to an entirely satisfactory conclusion.
But now was not the time to think of such things. It was only later on,
when Pearl was passing so many hours of enforced idleness on her sofa,
that somehow it became a matter of course that Stanislas de Güldenfeldt
should be found seated by her side, reading to her in his pleasant voice
the latest books from Europe, or talking to her as only he could talk.
That Pearl found pleasure in his society was evident. She seemed to
forget that anything of a painful nature had ever passed between them.
Her face would brighten as his form appeared on the verandah, and she
would greet him gladly with her soft voice. De Güldenfeldt would often
wonder whether in the very smallest degree she understood, not only how
blessed for him were those many hours spent thus by the side of her
sofa, but likewise how intensely he dreaded the fatal moment when she
would once more take up her everyday life, and when he consequently
would necessarily be shifted to the conventional rank of the occasional
afternoon visitor.
But those dreaded days still seemed a long way off. Meanwhile, Stanislas
de Güldenfeldt sat during the whole of those sweet, summer afternoons in
the presence of the woman he loved, drinking in the poison of her
returning beauty, and dreaming dreams of untold happiness and content.