THE PRICE OF A KISS.
Pearl's engagement to Stanislas de Güldenfeldt was not generally
announced. They both had their reasons for keeping the fact to
themselves, and it was only Mrs. Nugent's immediate family, and Sir
Ralph Nicholson, as so soon to form one of that family, who were
initiated into the secret.
Rosina was radiant, as indeed she well might be, for, after months of
feminine vacillation, were not both her beautiful charges at last
satisfactorily disposed of? Naturally, perhaps, she took the credit of
Pearl's engagement entirely to herself. She told her husband it would
never have come off if it had not been for that necessary progging,
given so judiciously to the devoted and constant, yet hesitating lover.
At this information Mr. Rawlinson growled forth the remark that she
would far better have left matters alone. That people who mixed
themselves up in such affairs generally ended by burning their own
fingers, and that if de Güldenfeldt, at his age, didn't know his own
mind, well, all that he could say was he was a far greater fool than he
had given him credit for being.
He further remarked--for when once wound up Tom Rawlinson was not devoid
of conversation,--that it was perfect bosh, in his opinion, this
ridiculous effusion and fuss over a simple and every-day engagement of
marriage. No doubt all the world gushed in the same absurd manner over
Pearl's first marriage. And pray, how had that turned out? Certainly he,
for one, didn't see that de Güldenfeldt was doing such a very good thing
for himself. True, Pearl was a pretty woman, pleasant too, and had an
uncommonly good fortune of her own. But then, look at that business with
her first husband, to say nothing of that uncomfortable scandal with
that fellow Martinworth, who, in his opinion, would far better have kept
in England, instead of coming to Japan and getting into further
mischief.
For his own part, he liked de Güldenfeldt. He was a capital chap, and he
thought it was a pity he was wasting himself on a woman who, in spite of
certain attractions, never succeeded in being of the same mind two days
running. In fact, in his humble opinion, he was far too good for Pearl.
Thus, having reduced his wife almost to the verge of tears, Tom
Rawlinson took his hat and went for a tramp across the hills.
Nevertheless, shortly after he had relieved his mind in this downright
fashion, Mr. Rawlinson informed Pearl that it was his express wish that
she should be married from his house. He likewise announced his
intention of bearing all the expenses of the _trousseau_ and the
wedding. In fact he begged that she would understand that she was to
look upon herself, for that occasion at least, as a daughter of the
house. Further, he requested her acceptance of a trifling cheque with
which to buy herself a jewel, which, he need not add, he would feel
greatly flattered by her wearing on her wedding day.
The cheque was a substantial one, representing the sum of a hundred
guineas.
By this time all the party had moved up to Chuzenji. Pearl was supremely
happy in her Japanese wooden house on the borders of the lake. She loved
her picturesque, bright little abode, with its fresh, clean
_tatami_,[13] its beautifully engrained wood, its white walls and
ceilings, and its sliding paper doors and cupboards. But above all, she
loved the broad, cool verandah, on which was passed the hot period of
the day, and from which was visible the most extensive, the most lovely
view of lake and mountains in all Chuzenji. She would rest her arms on
the balustrade of this verandah, which hung completely over the water,
and there she would remain, idle and happy for hours, watching the
limpid, laughing lake with its frame of wooded mountains and its ever
changing banks of clouds.
[13] Japanese matting.
But it was in the early morning that Pearl found Chuzenji the most
seductive, that she loved it best. After the opening of the
_amado_[14]--without which protection against storm and rain and thieves
no Japanese house would be complete--she would lie in bed, and with her
face turned towards the lake would watch with a dreamy fascination the
scene before her.
[14] Outside wooden shutters.
And indeed, the picture upon which she gazed with enchanted eyes was an
ideal one. The sapphire blueness of the water, on which at that hour
seldom a ripple was to be seen--the chain of wooded mountains rising up
large and indistinct, and garlanded by vast pearly belts of caressing,
fleecy clouds,--the little village on the opposite side, with its
sparkling beach and tiny wooden houses, glistening like snow in the
brilliant sun--the Japanese fishing boat, with one great, white wing
faintly fluttering in the soft and wavering breeze--Pearl would gaze
entranced at all this bewitching beauty of the mysterious silent morn,
enveloped in a hazy mantle of perfect peace and calm--and, gazing, she
would thank God that she lived.
Monsieur de Güldenfeldt was as enthusiastic as his _fiancée_ over the
varied charms of Chuzenji. They would pass together the greater part of
those sweet, sunny days, either sailing or rowing on the lake, or when
they wished to vary their form of exercise, taking long tramps across
the mountains to the plains where the myriads of wild flowers and the
great white tiger lilies grow. As Pearl became stronger, they would
sometimes walk to the neighbouring village of Yumoto, most beautiful and
secluded, with its forest of giant pines and maples that overhang the
miniature lake. Curious and unique, too, is this lovely mountain spot,
its chief characteristic being its open-air sulphur baths, among the
suffocating fumes of which the lower-class Japanese of both sexes are
seen disporting themselves, sometimes for hours at a time, their sole
array being Nature's garb of innocent simplicity.
Meanwhile, Pearl was far from feeling that happiness and contentment of
mind she certainly counted upon when she bound herself by promise to
marry Monsieur de Güldenfeldt. As the days passed she knew, without
analysing her feelings very deeply, that it was impossible for her to
give that love that he in time would without doubt claim as his due. In
spite of his many delightful qualities which called forth her sincere
admiration, in spite of his more than ordinary share of intelligence and
good looks, of the seductive tones and subtle charm of manner, and above
all,--in spite of his great and absorbing devotion to herself, Pearl
Nugent's heart did not beat one iota the faster at the sound of his
voice, at the touch of his hand, or at his presence by her side.
And the day when she discovered to her dismay the fact that not only did
she not care for him, but that, above all, de Güldenfeldt's great
affection for herself was acting as an irritant upon her nerves, Mrs.
Nugent was indeed a woman to be pitied. Before her engagement she had
thoroughly appreciated the hundred little attentions with which he had
surrounded her, and what is more, had almost looked upon them as her
right. Now however, that she was bound to him by promise, she found her
feelings undergoing an unexpected and most lamentable transformation.
She made every effort to disguise this change of front from her lover,
and she flattered herself that she succeeded fairly well.
Her surprise, therefore, would have been profound, and would have
equalled her dismay, if she had divined that Stanislas de Güldenfeldt
was, to a very great extent, aware of the constant and bitter struggle
that was being fought within her heart.
De Güldenfeldt was, however, a patient man. His chief object had been
gained, namely, Pearl's promise of herself. He was, therefore, content
to bide his time for what he flattered himself must necessarily follow
ere long--the promise of her love.
But though generally right in his calculations, on this occasion the
Swedish Minister was entirely at fault. Indeed, it was not surprising
that in this instance he should make a mistake. De Güldenfeldt's
knowledge of the intricate workings of the female mind was unusually
vague and superficial for one who so prominently and for so many years
had mixed in the world. His immersion hitherto in the political and the
more serious side of his profession, and the life led--as a recreation
to those duties--of scientific thought and study, was the worst school
for attaining a knowledge of womankind. Stanislas at this period of his
existence, though he was the last to acknowledge this deficiency, was
more ignorant than many a modern youth of twenty of those inexplicable
feminine contradictions that contribute not only towards the frenzy and
the despair, but likewise to the frequent destruction of too confiding
man.
If his experience of women had been a trifle greater, de Güldenfeldt's
eyes would have opened to the fact that this very indifference to his
presence, this very shrinking from his words and acts of affection,
which Pearl tried so vainly to disguise, was the sure and certain proof
that no amount of persuasion, of patience, or of tact would succeed in
securing him that love on which he relied for his future happiness. If
he could but have known it, Pearl was simply incapable of again feeling
a throb of passion. Her devotion for Martinworth had lasted too
long--had burnt too deeply into her soul--to be capable of being
rekindled, or of blazing afresh, lighted by another hand. Pearl knew it
now. And as the days went on, and she was more and more in de
Güldenfeldt's society, and as more and more he treated her as his own
especial property, she gradually realized that of the many mistakes she
had made of late, this last was the most disastrous, the most fatal of
her life.
It was about this time that Mrs. Nugent received an answer to her letter
to Mr. Hall. Enclosed with the letter was a copy of her will drawn up
from the rough draft she had sent her lawyer, and which only required to
be signed and witnessed to make it legal. Pearl put the private letter
aside to be perused at leisure, and witnessed by Count Carlitti and Tom
Rawlinson, she signed the document, with the intention of despatching it
by the mail that was leaving the same day.
Mr. Rawlinson was nothing if not business-like. And whereas Carlitti had
signed the will in a blissful state of ignorance as to its purport or
contents, and at the sight of a favourite lady-friend sweeping past
Pearl's door had immediately hurried in pursuit,--the former, before
venturing to put his name to paper, had ponderously read and weighed
every clause of the document.
"You will excuse me, Pearl," he said, as after a very firm and upright
'Thomas Rawlinson,' he deposited the parchment on the table, and leaning
against the frail wood-work of the Japanese _shoji_[15] he lit a cigar,
"you will excuse me if I venture, as a member of the family, to make a
remark. In my opinion this is an uncommonly rum sort of will of yours.
Deuced pleasant for Amy Mendovy, I allow, and it is nice of you to have
remembered Rosina so extremely handsomely. But may I be allowed to
inquire where your future husband, de Güldenfeldt, has a look in? It
seems to me that you have ignored his existence altogether."
[15] Sliding window.
Pearl flushed. "I am not yet married to Monsieur de Güldenfeldt," she
murmured, "and as his _fiancée_ I have certainly never for a moment
thought of leaving him my money. He does not need it. He has plenty of
his own."
"Doubtless," and Pearl blushed a deeper crimson under the scrutiny of
the keen eyes, "but you will, I suppose, in the natural course of
events, be married to him before many months have passed. It is, I
should have thought, hardly seemly to cut him out entirely. Don't you
agree with me?"
"The date of our marriage is not yet fixed. I am not married to him
yet," she repeated, rather helplessly. "When--when we are
married--nothing will be easier, I suppose, than to make a new will. In
fact the old will does not hold good in those circumstances. Besides,
there will be the settlements. I am perfectly aware that you mean well,
Tom. But don't distress yourself. I know what I am about."
"Well, then, I'm blest if I do, and that's flat!" exclaimed Rawlinson.
"No shilly shallying, I hope, my fair cousin. Let me tell you, once for
all, de Güldenfeldt is not the sort of fellow to stand any confounded
feminine nonsense. Pay attention to what I say, my dear, and don't for
heaven's sake, behave like a fool."
Pearl drew herself up, and her eyes flashed ominously.
"Really, Tom," she said, "I think you--you--go a little too far. You
presume somewhat on our relationship. I do not wish to believe that you
have any real intention of being rude or disagreeable, but--well--to
begin with, I never asked you to read my will. And I don't believe for a
moment that it is usual for a witness to read through a will before
signing it."
"Don't you, indeed! Well! I tell you it is usual for Tom Rawlinson to do
so. You needn't have done me the honour of asking me to witness it if
you didn't like the habit. But," he added, seeing she still looked
angry, "don't let us wrangle about such a trifle. You mustn't be vexed
at my plain speaking, Pearl. Remember, I stand _in loco parentis_ to
you, and if that position doesn't give me the right to offer advice and
to speak my mind, I don't know what should. But when, I should like to
know, did a woman ever take advice? Nevertheless, I repeat I am puzzled
with regard to your treatment of de Güldenfeldt. He is a first-rate
chap, Pearl."
"Oh! you dear old Tom, as if I didn't know that. Am I likely to forget
it, when the fact is being everlastingly dinned into my poor ears? How
often have I not been told by you, and Rosina, and Amy, that I am the
luckiest woman on the face of the earth to have succeeded in securing
such a treasure? It is not necessary to impress this information so
often, so very often, upon me, I assure you, Tom. I am perfectly aware
of my good luck, and you may rest satisfied that I have no intention
whatsoever of forfeiting such a prize. Nevertheless, in spite of your
objections, and of anything that you may consider it your duty to say,
my money, certainly for the present, goes to Amy, and not to Stanislas.
Why! it was chiefly for that purpose and for the pleasure of being able
to leave it to her, that I decided to accept that horrid fortune."
"Indeed! Well, I suppose you know your own wishes best. She's a lucky
girl. Not that she is ever likely to get it. Your life is as good as
hers, any day," with which farewell shaft Tom Rawlinson took his
departure.
"A queer woman, that Pearl," he remarked to his wife that evening over
his second glass of port. "Hysterical, and nervous and uncertain. I
wouldn't be in that poor fellow de Güldenfeldt's shoes for all I'm
worth. Not that she'll ever marry him, that's one blessing."
"What?" shrieked Rosina and Amy in chorus. "Oh, Tom, what do you mean?"
added his wife tremulously.
"I mean what I say. At the last moment--she'll wait till then, of
course--but at the last moment, Pearl Nugent will throw de Güldenfeldt
over. I warn you she has not the slightest intention of marrying him.
She finds it very convenient to have a devoted idiot eternally dangling
after her. But she'll never come up to the scratch. She's as shifty and
as vacillating as you make 'em. A most untrustworthy woman, I call her,
in spite of her prettiness, her money, and all the rest of it."
"You've disliked Pearl from the commencement, Tom," replied Rosina as
she rose from the table, "and of course nothing I may say will be likely
to change your opinion. But I really think, before making these rash
assertions, you should have some grounds to go upon."
"I by no means dislike your Pearl. In fact I rather like her. But with
regard to her heart affairs, she--as a weak, vacillating member of your
sex,--in my opinion, takes the cake. Mark my words, Rosina, my fair and
fascinating cousin Pearl will never be the wife of Stanislas de
Güldenfeldt."
"As he gets older your poor uncle's habit of constantly repeating
himself increases," remarked Rosina, as she and Amy settled themselves
in the little rowing boat. "He really is a most tiresome man. This
engagement of Pearl's is so very satisfactory in every way. I was so
enchanted about it. And now he makes me wretched with those horrid
prognostications of his. I wonder what can have induced him to take such
an annoying idea into his head. So shortly after everything has all been
comfortably settled, too. You don't think that there is any ground for
his fears, do you, Amy?"
Amy was silent, while her eyes grew thoughtful. "Yes," she said after a
minute, "I think that perhaps uncle is right. I am sure Pearl is not
happy, auntie. She tries her utmost to like Stanislas, but nothing she
can do will ever succeed in making her really care for him. He has got
on her nerves. I can see that."
"And he's such a dear, charming fellow, and so absolutely devoted to
her."
"Whereas, if he were a worthless but fascinating scoundrel, who merely
desired to marry her for her money, she would probably adore him, and be
grovelling at his feet for a kind word. We women are made like that,"
replied Amy, with a worldly wisdom beyond her years.
"Well, at any rate, your affairs and Ralph's are all right. That's one
comfort."
"I'm not so sure of that. I've discovered lately that Ralph is by no
means perfection, and as life is far too short to devote time to the
correction of settled bad habits, I'm not at all certain, auntie, but
that in the end I may be reduced to the unpleasant necessity of throwing
him over," and Amy's eyes gleamed with mischief as she glanced up at her
aunt and gave an extra strong pull at the sculls.
Mrs. Rawlinson's face for the space of a moment was indicative of the
deepest despair. But bitter experience had taught her wisdom, and she
made no reply. She had long ago given up attempting to fathom the
intricate traits of her young niece's character, or of trying to decide
in her own mind those moments when Amy meant seriously or the reverse.
Thus on the present occasion she held her peace, and with a sigh of
resignation placidly folded her plump hands upon her lap. Trusting that
a merciful Providence would take the matter up, she offered a secret
prayer that in spite of the perversity of a troublesome niece, all might
ultimately come right in the end.
The Martinworths had taken possession of their rooms in the hotel.
Circumstances, however, had so far arranged themselves that the
inevitable meeting between Pearl and Lord Martinworth had not so far
taken place. Pearl had on the contrary been constantly thrown in contact
with his wife, the latter having contracted the habit of running in and
out of Mrs. Nugent's house whenever an opportunity occurred. Pearl found
her looking both unhappy and ill, but though she more than half divined
the cause, Lady Martinworth volunteered no information, rarely indeed
mentioning her husband's name. It was purely incidentally that, in the
course of conversation one day, Pearl learnt that Lord Martinworth's
health was, in his wife's opinion by no means satisfactory, and
consequently, the cause of considerable anxiety.
With that vague fear and dismay felt by Pearl whenever she now thought
or spoke of Martinworth, she nevertheless nerved herself, on receiving
this intimation, to make one or two necessary and polite inquiries.
"I hope," she said rather formally, "that you are not seriously uneasy
as to Lord Martinworth's health? If so, this is the last place to bring
him to. We have no doctor up here, you know."
"Life is too short to fuss over people who decline to be fussed over,"
replied Lady Martinworth philosophically. "Dick bites off my head if I
suggest he is out of sorts. So now I hold my tongue. But the fact
remains, his nerves are completely unstrung, and he's jumpy to a degree.
His temper, too, has been unbearable ever since he returned from that
trip. I think it must be the Japanese food that disagreed with him. He
lived on it for two months. And we all know the digestion acts to a
great extent on the temper and the nerves."
Pearl smiled. "I should say it is much more likely to be the climate
than the food. Nervous people always come to grief in Japan. I should
get him away if I were you."
Lady Martinworth glanced sharply at Mrs. Nugent.
"That is most excellent advice, my dear," she said dryly, "and
nothing would give me greater pleasure than to follow it. But
unfortunately Martinworth possesses a will before which--from my
experience--everything and everybody give way in the end."
Pearl changed colour, and turned the conversation.
It was some days after the above remarks that Mrs. Nugent and de
Güldenfeldt decided to row half way down the lake to Shogonohama. They
beached their boat, wandering under the shade of the maples, till they
found themselves in the little hut overlooking the waterfall. The rain
had poured in torrents for the whole of the day and night before. The
cascade, always beautiful, was that day simply magnificent, and the
sheets of water crowned with their wreaths of snowy foam, were tearing
over the smooth surface of the rocks, and across the fallen trunks of
trees, in unbridled and uncontrollable fury. The sight was a glorious
one, if somewhat appalling, and the noise was deafening. Pearl and de
Güldenfeldt sat close to each other, silent and impressed, he half
supporting her with his arm, for the barrier against which they leant--a
frail and rotten bamboo--was their only protection from sure and summary
destruction.
The sight of rushing, roaring waters invariably worked upon Pearl's
emotions. The present moment, with its many lovely accessories, a
brilliant blue sky, massive, fern-grown rocks, and surrounding woods of
every shade of green--stirred her greatly, and combined in awakening
feelings that had long lain dormant in her heart.
With unusual demonstrativeness she turned towards Stanislas, her lips
parted, and her eyes shining like stars, and taking his hand between her
own, she laid it gently against her cheek. Since their engagement, Pearl
had volunteered but few proofs of tenderness, and the present action on
her part was so spontaneous, so unexpected, that Stanislas felt the
blood surging up into his head, and his heart throbbing, as in reply he
leant forward, and pressing her to him, he kissed her passionately on
the lips.
A moment later they both instinctively knew--for they could hear nothing
owing to the deafening roar of the waters,--that someone was watching
them from behind. They turned simultaneously, their eyes meeting those
of Lord Martinworth fixed upon them--while Amy Mendovy--apparently
extremely wretched and uncomfortable--was standing by his side.
Arriving from an opposite direction and at that unfortunate moment
sharply turning a corner, Martinworth and Amy had fallen thus upon the
unconscious pair, necessarily witnessing the whole tender and silently
acted scene.
At such a sacred moment, the last thing one would ask is to be
disturbed, and however true and deep and absorbing may be a man's
feelings at the time, it is hardly a pleasant sentiment to know that to
the ordinary outside and amused observer one must necessarily be looking
somewhat like a fool.
And yet, to his intense annoyance, it was in this undignified and
unusual position that de Güldenfeldt now found himself. Perhaps it was
only human nature that, being the sole person at fault, his rage should
straightway centre itself upon one who so far had proved himself, except
by his uncalled-for and unfortunate arrival, entirely inoffensive.
He took two steps forward in Lord Martinworth's direction, and was about
to pour forth a flow of angry words and enquiries, when his eloquence
was abruptly nipped in the bud by the expression on his would-be
victim's face.
And, indeed, the transformation visible on that countenance, which de
Güldenfeldt had known so well in former days, was enough not only to
astonish, but to paralyze the bravest man. For the face was no longer
human. It was almost that of a fiend.
Lord Martinworth was looking straight at Pearl. His blue eyes, which she
had always known so soft and tender, so gentle and so kind, gleamed
wildly, seeming to be charged with lightning under the contracting
eyebrows. His mouth was slightly open, and through the sneering lips
shone the white teeth, while the nostrils of the delicate nose were
quivering with excitement and with rage. Features so transformed were
sufficient in themselves to terrify the most courageous. But an
expression of bitter, overwhelming hate and fury, resting like a veil
upon the livid face, completed the appalling picture.
He did not say a word. He hardly seemed to breathe. But he stood--for
what seemed to the spectators an endless period--staring at Pearl Nugent
with those frenzied eyes. With one hand half-lifted before her, as if to
shut off the sight, and with the other clutching de Güldenfeldt's arm,
she looked back, white and trembling with fear, yet as if
half-hypnotised, into Martinworth's face.
At last the tension proving more than she could bear, Pearl gave one
little piteous moan, and sank unconscious upon the earthern floor of the
shed.
This alarming occurrence roused all from the spell that had hitherto
held them silent and inactive. Martinworth, casting one last look of
infinite hatred and contempt at the inanimate form, turned and left the
hut, while de Güldenfeldt and Amy, bending over Pearl, and engrossed in
their attempts to restore her back to consciousness, hardly noticed that
he was gone.
For long their efforts seemed unavailing. But at last Pearl slowly
opened her grey eyes, smiling sweetly at de Güldenfeldt as he leant over
her. Then consciousness and memory returning, the terrified expression
shadowed once more the pale face.
"Where is he?" she whispered, starting up. "Has he gone?"
"Yes, my darling, he has gone away," replied Amy, taking the still
trembling form in her arms. "You have nothing to fear, Pearl."
"He is gone! And you did not kill him!" exclaimed Pearl, tearing herself
from Amy's arms, and facing de Güldenfeldt. "Oh God! you let him go? You
did not kill him? And you call yourself a man?"
Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's first expression of surprise changed to one
of sorrow. At the moment it seemed to him that this most uncalled-for
and unexpected attack was a return of Pearl's illness and delirium.
"Hush! dear, hush!" he said soothingly, "Why should I kill Martinworth?
He did nothing."
"You say he did nothing?" she cried excitedly. "You saw the horrible way
in which he looked at me, and you say he did nothing? Oh,
coward!--coward!"
The blood flew into de Güldenfeldt's cheeks, and he bit his lips.
"Don't excite yourself, Pearl," he replied quietly. "Of course, if you
think Martinworth has insulted you, he shall answer to me for it. Now
come home, for you are ill, dear, and it is getting late."
Pearl said no more, suffering herself to be led between Amy and
Stanislas, though she was still trembling like a leaf when they placed
her in the boat. From the moment that she was seated in the stern, Mrs.
Nugent lapsed into gloomy silence. Her former excitement, greatly to the
relief of both, appeared to have passed as quickly as it had risen. She
sat with her hands clasped on her knees, staring out before her, but
taking no notice of passing objects.
The silent row home against a high wind seemed endless. But at length
they arrived at Mrs. Nugent's house, and Amy, as a matter of course,
followed her cousin within its shelter.
Stanislas knew that with Miss Mendovy Pearl was in safe and tender
hands. But he looked very white and drawn, and he heaved a deep sigh as
turning back into the boat he sculled himself home.
From the moment that he and Amy had half lifted her into the boat Pearl
had completely ignored his presence, nor had she answered, or taken any
notice whatsoever, of her lover's farewell salutation.
Stanislas de Güldenfeldt had indeed paid dearly for that one moment's
happiness of the touch of Pearl's soft hand upon his cheek!