HIDDEN FIRES.
Prophets of misfortune are apt to experience a decided sentiment of
humiliation, perhaps a sneaking disappointment and regret, when their
evil prognostications remain unfulfilled.
Monsieur de Güldenfeldt was, however, a pleasant exception to the rule.
In spite of the catastrophe he had foretold, it was with genuine relief
that as time went on, he proved to his own considerable satisfaction
that the calm enjoyments of Chuzenji were as far as he could see, in no
danger of being disturbed by the unmanageable presence of a lunatic at
large.
After each meeting with Lord Martinworth--and they were necessarily
many, for the invalid was soon about again, and in this charming but
restricted mountain resort it is difficult to take a stroll without
running across all the world--Stanislas confessed he could perceive no
signs of the malady that he feared. Indeed, as time passed, and they met
for at least a few minutes every day, he concluded that not only was
Martinworth perfectly sane, but that he was certainly in manner and in
appearance more intelligent, more brisk and wide-awake than nine men out
of ten. He had known Dick Martinworth for many years. But during the
period of his former friendship he failed to recall those signs of vivid
intellect and buoyant spirits, undeniable proofs of which were
constantly now being brought before his notice.
It would seem as if the physical shock and pain of his attempted
suicide, instead of injuring had on the contrary, acted as a tonic upon
the moral stamina of the man. From the moment that he left his sofa he
was to all outward appearances a changed individual. Whereas of late
months, he had been morose and abstracted, gloomy, surly, and
unsociable, he suddenly developed traits of quiet wit, constant good
humour, charming affability, and such a desire for the companionship of
his fellow creatures that it was not long before he attained the,
perhaps scarcely enviable position of the most popular guest in the
hotel.
He and his wife from this date, were constantly seen in each other's
society, a fact in itself enough to strike those who knew him and the
circumstances of his marriage with considerable wonder. She, poor soul,
was consequently beaming with happiness. There were more than a few who
were heard at this period of her existence, to call Lady Martinworth
actually good-looking, which shows what a contented mind can sometimes
do for the improvement of homely features.
Pearl and de Güldenfeldt would, in their walks and expeditions,
frequently run across the Martinworth couple apparently on the most
excellent conjugal terms. They would stop and talk for a few minutes,
and the meetings would pass off naturally and without unpleasantness. De
Güldenfeldt would, nevertheless, give a sigh of relief each time these
encounters were safely accomplished, for with the appearance in the
distance of Martinworth and his wife, Mrs. Nugent would turn white and
dismayed, and while clutching nervously at her _fiancé's_ arm, her
breath would come and go in short, quick gasps.
No sooner, however, was she actually in Lord Martinworth's presence than
these signs of distress would disappear, and Pearl would behave with as
much _sang froid_ as any other woman of the world placed in similar
circumstances. Indeed, it was an intense satisfaction to judge with her
own eyes that, in spite of de Güldenfeldt's dreary prognostications, and
indeed, in spite of her own personal fears, there now seemed no ground
for their former gloomy apprehensions.
Lord Martinworth's condition was certainly, as far as she could judge,
absolutely normal. Realising this, it was perhaps hardly a matter for
wonder that Mrs. Nugent felt slightly humiliated that so much wasted
sympathy, such heart-rending remorse, had been conferred on one who,
from all outward appearances, neither needed nor seemingly expected
further consideration than is usually bestowed on a fellow creature
temporarily incapacitated or indisposed.
She could not but appreciate--though once again she experienced a faint
surprise--Martinworth's tact and delicacy in making no attempt to thrust
himself into her presence. He had not called either before or since what
was now generally spoken of as his "accident," and in recalling the
dread she experienced when she first heard of his expected arrival at
Chuzenji, of her fear of constant importunities, frequent visits, vain
protestations, Pearl could not but smile--rather drearily and cynically,
it is true--at these apprehensions, apparently so entirely uncalled-for,
and premature.
Thus were the fears of all repressed and allayed. Lord Martinworth, as
was only right and proper, devoted himself to his wife. Monsieur de
Güldenfeldt was seldom absent from Mrs. Nugent's side, and Sir Ralph
Nicholson, after a laughing remonstrance on Amy's part, at what she
declared was a far too premature exhibition of masculine appropriation,
was happy once more in the undisputed society of the girl he was to
marry. The quiet every-day life, the innocent, healthy out-door
pleasures of Chuzenji, pursued their natural and their agreeable course.
Everyone seemed contented and at ease. There were no disputes, no
excitements, no disturbances, and probably matters would have continued
thus satisfactorily till the end of the season had it not been that one
member of the little community was obliged to acknowledge that delicious
dallying through those long, lovely summer days, and the enjoyment of
charming society and the peaceful pleasures of the country were, alas!
not the only ingredients that constituted life.
Stanislas de Güldenfeldt's official duties called him to the Capital.
He parted from Pearl with a lingering regret, tempered with an anxiety
he did not attempt to conceal. At the moment of his departure, all his
former fears of Martinworth which had been lying dormant for so many
weeks were renewed, and the knowledge that he was leaving his future
wife alone and unprotected induced him once more to urge upon her a
temporary absence from Chuzenji. She, however, definitely refused to
contemplate his proposal, and nothing he could say would move her from
her decision. De Güldenfeldt was offered instead, one sole consolation.
On the eve of his departure, he at last succeeded in extracting from
Pearl a reluctant promise that their marriage should take place shortly
after the general return to Tokyo. This concession had, to a certain
extent, relieved de Güldenfeldt's mind, for it was the first time since
their engagement that Pearl--in spite of his many attempts--had allowed
him to touch on the all-important subject of the date of their marriage.
Mrs. Nugent was wise enough to understand that it was necessary to
concede something. She could not for ever be refusing her lover's every
suggestion, every wish, and she reassured herself with the thought that
it was now but the end of August. The middle of October still seemed to
her a very long way off. Much might happen before then.
And so Stanislas rode off down the pass, partially consoled. It was only
Pearl watching his vanishing figure from the tea-house to which she had
accompanied him, who once more found herself recalling with a sickening
dread that threatening look which for so long had haunted her nights and
embittered her days.
For even as Pearl watched her lover from afar guiding his horse down the
zigzag path, she felt again that strange feeling of coming evil that
assailed her when de Güldenfeldt had proposed to her under the shadow of
the Shogun's tomb. It attacked her now with renewed force. And some
Power, which she could not explain, induced her to cry his name aloud.
He heard her, and turned in his saddle. Her tall figure, clad in a white
gown, stood out clearly against a background of dark pines. Her arms
were stretched towards him, and even at that distance he could
distinguish the general fear and unrest enveloping her person.
"Stanislas," she cried, "come back to me. I want you."
He put his horse to a canter, and was soon by her side.
"What is it, my darling?" he said dismounting, and going up to her he
took her two hands in his, and gazed steadily into her face.
"Stanislas," she whispered,--and she put her arms round his neck, hiding
her head on his breast,--"forgive me, dear, for calling you back. But I
felt so sad, so lonely, so frightened, and I wanted to tell you before
you left how much--how very, very grateful I am, for all your goodness
to me. I have never told you this before, Stanislas. But I felt I could
not let you go without assuring you that I will try to prove my
gratitude by being a good wife to you. I will indeed. No one has ever
been so kind to me as you have been. No one has been so gentle, so
tender, so forbearing. And yet _I_ know I have often been trying,
capricious, unreasonable. I have rewarded you but badly, darling, for
all your kindness--your great goodness to me. Do you think me very
horrid, Stanislas?" and she looked up at him, her lovely eyes clouded
with tears.
It is unnecessary to give Monsieur de Güldenfeldt's reply to this
question.
Once more he rode down the path, his face aglow and his heart lighter
than he had felt it for many weeks past. Whilst Pearl, sad and sorry,
wended her way slowly home, and throwing herself on her knees by the
side of her bed, burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
It was in this melancholy condition that Rosina found her half-an-hour
later. Mrs. Rawlinson asked no questions. But she took her cousin in her
arms, and kissed and soothed her, and stroked the tight little auburn
curls that since Pearl's illness had taken the place of the magnificent
tresses for which she had once been famous. She knew well enough what
was troubling Pearl, for ever since her husband had opened her eyes, she
for weeks had silently watched the struggle which she saw was being
fought out within her cousin's breast. She deeply pitied her, but she
understood that she could not force her confidence--that she must wait
for her to speak. And now at length the moment had come. Ere long Pearl
had unburdened her whole soul to the friend who had never proved her
false. She told her cousin everything. Nothing was left unconfessed,
from the moment that Lord Martinworth had once more crossed her path, to
her parting that day with Stanislas de Güldenfeldt.
And when she had finished a long silence ensued between the two women,
for Rosina knew not what comfort to hold forth.
Pearl had shed all her tears, and with hands crossed upon her knees was
gazing out with mournful eyes at the distant mountains and the blue,
sunlit lake.
At last she spoke again in short sharp sentences. "Tell me, Rosina," she
said, "what am I to do? How am I to marry Stanislas? I do not love him.
I can never love him. I have tried so hard, and at one time when he
asked me again I thought it would be so easy. Why do I not care for him?
He is lovable enough, heaven knows! I dare not tell him that I cannot
marry him. I dare not. I dare not. It would, I know, break his
heart--that heart which is of pure gold. I had my chance to-day, when he
insisted on my fixing the date of our marriage. But coward that I was, I
left all that I ought to have said unsaid. Now I am in a worse position
than ever. We are to be married in the middle of October, Oh! Rosina,
what am I to do? Tell me, dearest, what am I to do?"
"There is," replied Mrs. Rawlinson, rising from her seat, and speaking
very quietly, "only one thing, Pearl, to be done. If you feel like this
you must discontinue the engagement."
"I cannot, I cannot! I tell you it will break his heart. It will kill
him. He is not a boy, and I don't think he has ever cared very much for
anyone before. He is sacrificing much, I know, to marry me. Oh, Rosina!
if you only knew how I like him, how I respect--admire him, take
pleasure in his society--everything, but--love him. If he would only be
satisfied with these things. But once we are married he will, of course,
look upon my love as his lawful right, and oh! how shall I be able to
endure it? How shall I, in these circumstances--yielding nothing--giving
nothing--be able to live with him?"
"My dear Pearl," replied Mrs. Rawlinson, taking her cousin's hand
between her own, and looking at her steadily with her clear brown eyes,
"it is no good going over the same ground time after time. You must
realise one thing. You must either make up your mind to marry Stanislas
de Güldenfeldt, or else you must break if off _at once_. Now, if you
feel that this marriage is impossible for the reasons that you give, you
must have the strength of mind to write immediately, and put an end to
the matter. He will suffer, but people nowadays do not die of broken
hearts. Whereas if you marry, not loving him--obliged to live in daily
intercourse fulfilling your duty as a wife, your life will be a torture.
He, of course, will soon understand what you are going through, and
there will be unhappiness and misery on both sides. I repeat, if you
feel certain, dear, that you can never give him that love that he will
expect as his right, there is only one course to follow. It will,
believe me, be kinder to him in the end. Stanislas de Güldenfeldt is not
a man to be trifled with. He is not a man to rest satisfied with half
measures. If I remained in your house a week, Pearl, I should only
repeat the same thing. So good-bye, my darling. Be brave. Follow my
advice, and write to him without further delay."
Mrs. Rawlinson pondered greatly as she wended her way homewards. She
wondered much whether Pearl would be guided by her advice, and, knowing
human nature fairly well, the conclusion at which she ultimately arrived
was--that she would not.
"She will marry him," she thought, "and they will, I suppose, both be
thoroughly wretched for the rest of their days. And I, who was so
pleased at this match! Really, Pearl is very tiresome. Why on earth
can't she be reasonably and comfortably in love like anybody else? But
one can't alter one's disposition, I suppose. As things are, such a
marriage for both parties concerned is simply suicidal. Dear me! how Tom
will chuckle when I tell him of this interview."
And he certainly did.
"This comes," he said, "of your mixing yourself up in such affairs.
Didn't I tell you you would burn your fingers? Didn't I tell you, that
though obstinate enough on certain points, on matters connected with her
heart Pearl never knew her own mind two days running? And didn't I tell
you that marriage number two would probably prove as great a _fiasco_ as
marriage number one? Never mind, my dear, you will meet with your
reward, for in less than a couple of years you will probably have the
delightful excitement of all the scandal of another divorce, or at least
a separation. De Güldenfeldt is not a man to stand any damned nonsense,
I can tell you."
Certainly, Mr. Rawlinson was an extremely annoying, disagreeable sort of
husband. Such was Rosina's decided, and perhaps justifiable opinion at
that moment.
Meanwhile, with regard to the writing of the proposed letter of
dismissal, Mrs. Rawlinson was perfectly correct in her surmises. It
was--though often enough commenced--never accomplished. Day after day
Mrs. Nugent would make up her mind to put an end to the existing state
of things, and day after day matters remained exactly as they were. At
last the time approached for the return of her future husband, and still
the letter was unwritten. Pearl adopted the habit of indulging in long,
solitary walks, and dejected rows on the lake, every day finding her
more care-worn, paler and thinner, and Count Carlitti, who paid her many
visits at this time, became more and more concerned about her state of
health and loss of animation and good looks.
"I must tell you, _mon ami_," he said to Ralph in a moment of
confidence, "I intended a week or two ago to declare myself. Because you
know she is _une ravissante et charmante femme_. My heart did beat each
time I did see her. Yes, I would have made her _la Comtesse Carlitti_.
She was worthy of my name and title, and leetle fortune. But now, _que
voulez vous?_ her beauty fades. Every day it does vanish a leetle more,
and perhaps--_qui sait?_ one day she will become only a savage
flower--no longer _une rose, la reine des fleurs_. So I have decided
now, _mon cher_ Nicholson, not to tell her of my honourable intentions.
Do you not give me right?"
"Quite right," replied Ralph, "but I am sorry for her, poor thing. It
will, you know, be a cruel disappointment."
Monsieur Carlitti, who was by no means the fool that some people gave
him the credit for being, looked up sharply.
"Ah! _farceur!_ now you do mock," he said. "I will no longer hesitate,
but will ask her to-day. And to-morrow I will announce to you my
wedding. _Elle est adorable!_"
"I do lofe you," he said to Pearl that afternoon, having to his great
satisfaction found her alone in her little white drawing room. "I do
lofe you _excessivement_. I have lofed you from the first day that I met
you at _la fête de la Légation de France_. It will give me a happiness
_immense_ to make you _la Comtesse Carlitti_. I know that you are _une
divorcée_. _Mais n'importe, vous êtes si belle et si séduisante._ And I
do lofe you. That is enough. We shall make _trés bon ménage_. You will
share with me my leetle fortune, and I likewise your fortune will
participate with you. _Un arrangement bien commode._"
Pearl never for an instant doubted but that the arrangement would indeed
be extremely convenient, especially for the male participator thereof,
her fortune being at least ten times larger than that of her admirer.
"I will suicide myself," he said mournfully, after she in all
gentleness, but with a smile in her eyes which she vainly tried to
suppress, had refused the honour of this noble alliance; "I will burn
myself the brain. _Je suis trop malheureux._ For I had said to myself,
'_cette belle Madame Nugent_ is worthy of the ancient name of Carlitti,
and of my leetle fortune.' And now you do me decline. You do say 'No.'
So I will suicide myself. Yes, I will go on the lake, _ce beau lac de_
Chuzenji, and you--cruel one--will never, never see me more."
Not much anxiety was experienced by Mrs. Nugent at these threats of her
volatile and flighty adorer. To no one did she mention the details of
this interview, or the melancholy result of Count Carlitti's matrimonial
attempt. As for Ralph, he was by far too kind-hearted to think of
putting his sanguine friend to the torture of answering painful
questions.
Indeed, the unusual droop of the finely waxed and pointed moustache, the
plaintive look in the soft, brown eyes--and the general limpness and
depression that for two whole days enveloped the person of the
ordinarily vivacious little man, told their own sad tale.