'TWIXT SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
It was two or three days before Monsieur de Güldenfeldt's proposed
return. And Pearl knew that if her letter of rupture was to be sent at
all it was necessary to write it without further delay.
For over an hour she had been sitting at her writing table with the
blank paper before her. The atmosphere was heavy and close, signs of a
coming storm. Her head was aching, and her sight dimmed with the pain.
Finally, after merely inscribing a few words, she impatiently threw down
her pen, and, pushing the writing materials aside, she rose from her
seat.
"There will be ample time to catch the post when I come in," she
thought. "My head is splitting. I shall die if I don't have some air."
The sun was covered, but this by no means prevented the heat from being
stifling as Pearl plodded along the path that overhung the lake. Her
feet lagged somewhat, but her thoughts on the contrary, followed each
other in rapid succession, and as she trudged through the undergrowth
she found herself recalling many incidents of her past life. That
unaccountable feeling of misery and depression, that so often weighs
down the spirits before the coming of a typhoon, possessed Mrs. Nugent
this afternoon. This sentiment of melancholy did not strike her as
anything out of the way, for it was indeed many a long day since Pearl
had known what it was to feel really happy or light-hearted. She found
her eyes filling with tears of self-pity as she walked to the border of
the lake, and leaning against a tree, gazed down sadly into its depths.
After all, she drearily thought, what a long incessant struggle had been
her life. What a small, what a very small iota of happiness had fallen
to her lot. Pearl buried her face in her hands, and wondered if, in any
way, she had brought these misfortunes on herself--if, indeed, it had
been through any fault of her own that everyone whom she had trusted and
loved had proved false in the end, that everything she had believed in
had eventually turned to ashes in her hands.
She thought of herself at the time of her marriage--bright, and sunny,
and single-hearted, believing in everybody who was kind to her and in
everything that pleased her. She remembered how this credulity, this
innocent faith in all that was best in human nature, had blindly centred
itself in the husband whose utter worthlessness, before many months were
passed, was the cause of a cruel awakening from this beautiful dream of
pure belief, resulting in disillusion, and in a bitter lesson thoroughly
learnt.
She recalled the wretched years that followed this discovery of Mr.
Norrywood's real disposition. Then she thought of Martinworth, and how
he had come into her life, to transform its misery into an unsatisfied,
restless excitement, which, at the time, she blindly deceived herself
was happiness. From Martinworth her thoughts turned to the sweet widowed
mother, who had died before she left school, but whose example and
teaching had remained implanted in her mind, and was the means of
keeping her honest and pure through many a bitter moment of trial and
temptation. Pearl loved to think of her mother. For long she let her
thoughts linger round this guardian angel of her youth. It was a relief
to turn them away from herself, and to recall that tall, stately figure,
with the large grey eyes, so like her own, the soft voice, and the
grave, sweet smile.
She sat down on a moss-grown boulder, and dwelt tenderly on all the past
incidents of her merry childhood, and trusting, early girlhood. And when
at length she rose, and once more continued her walk, Pearl Nugent's
thoughts had taken a new and a happier turn.
She wandered on, lingering here and there, and occasionally plucking
some of the many ferns and wild flowers that grew by the path. Her eyes
travelled upwards and alighted, at some distance above her, upon a plant
she had long desired, a magnificent specimen of the _Osmunda regina_.
Pearl paused in her walk, and found herself speculating as to how
greatly this giant fern would adorn her rockery, one of the many
beauties of her lovely garden. Finally, with some difficulty, she
succeeded in clambering up the steep upright bank, and regardless of the
rising wind and the rain that now began to fall, she attempted to loosen
the plant, and, for want of a better instrument, commenced digging with
her fingers at the roots.
Mrs. Nugent little knew that she had a solitary but interested spectator
of her proceedings. Martinworth, in his boat on the lake, had caught the
flutter of a white dress through the trees, and, with his keen sight, it
did not take him long to distinguish that the owner of the dress was
Pearl. He shipped his oars, and bending forward watched with absorption
the efforts to uproot the fern. He had not long been thus silently
employed when, to his astonishment and dismay, he saw her jerk suddenly
backwards, and, sliding rapidly down the bank, disappear from view in a
cloud of earth and stones.
The plant that at one time seemed so firmly and obstinately embedded in
the ground had, without warning, become loosened, and Pearl, in giving
one final pull, found herself thrown with violence and unexpected
impetus upon the path.
Her fall was not from any great height. Though dazed for a minute by the
suddenness of her collapse, she was preparing to rise from her lowly
position when, in attempting to stand, a sharp pain in her right ankle
was an unmistakeable and alarming proof that her foot was sprained. With
dismay and a smothered cry she fell back again on the ground.
To make matters worse, the wind was rising every minute, and the rain,
increasing in force, was penetrating the foliage overhead. Pearl made a
supreme effort to drag herself up by catching at the branches and the
brushwood, but the pain of her foot was so intense that, greatly to her
annoyance, she found herself forced to desist from her efforts.
The path was an unfrequented one. And it was hardly a consoling thought
that a night spent in a dripping wood, with a possible typhoon thrown in
for company, was likely to prove the result of her adventure. Indeed,
this anticipation was so little congenial to Pearl that she once more
made a final effort to rise, the consequence being that, certainly for a
minute or two, she lost consciousness from the pain.
She was aroused from this partial lethargy by a rustling of the leaves,
and the next minute the form of Lord Martinworth emerged from behind the
trees.
On any other occasion Martinworth's sudden appearance would have filled
Mrs. Nugent with the greatest dread and consternation. Her present
position was, however, proving so extremely unpleasant that, forgetting
all fears and past disagreeableness, she found herself, on the contrary,
hailing his unexpected arrival on the scene with intense relief.
"Thank goodness! you have come," she exclaimed, as her face brightened.
"I have been very unfortunate, and in falling have sprained my ankle. I
am quite helpless, and unable to move."
Lord Martinworth gazed down at the recumbent form for a few seconds in
silence. Then he said:
"You seem indeed to be in a sorry plight. The only thing I can suggest
is that I should carry you to my boat. I have got it moored close by,"
and, without waiting for a reply, he stooped down and gently lifted her
in his arms. "I will row you home," he added. "Put your arms round my
neck," and Pearl found herself obediently following his directions.
It was with considerable difficulty, hampered as he was by a burden by
no means slight, that Martinworth succeeded in threading his way through
the undergrowth. The climb down the steep uneven bank was long and most
laborious.
He was breathless when he at length deposited Pearl by the edge of the
lake.
"I must wait a moment," he panted, "before I attempt to lift you into
the boat. The lake is fearfully rough, and my little cockleshell is not
made for bad weather. We shall have to keep by the shore. You are not
afraid?" and he looked down at her with a strange light in his eyes.
Pearl hesitated a moment.
"No," she said at last, "I don't think I am afraid, at least, not very
much. But I want to get home as soon as possible. I have to write a
letter that must absolutely go by this evening's post."
Lord Martinworth looked at her fixedly, but said nothing. And once more
he stooped down and lifted her in his arms.
It was no easy matter to place Pearl into the little outrigger which was
dancing like a cork on the water, that from a calm and sunny lake had in
so short a time become transformed into a raging sea. Twice he missed
his footing and nearly fell, and twice he recovered himself, while Pearl
clung tightly to him, and felt his heart beating against her own. The
rain had ceased for the moment, but the wind raged in greater fury than
ever, and it was already getting dusk. Lord Martinworth's third effort,
however, proved successful. Depositing Pearl in the stern of the boat,
he took off his coat and made a cushion for the injured foot.
"It will be an endless, a terrible business getting back," he said,
"Don't stir. For as it is, it will be all I can do to keep the boat from
upsetting. Steer as near the shore as you can."
Pearl silently obeyed his directions, while Lord Martinworth worked
manfully at the sculls.
The boat, as he truly said, was not intended for rough weather. Pearl
soon realised this fact as it danced up and down, backwards and
forwards, and the water came dashing over bow and stern.
At first the pair were silent, for all Martinworth's breath was required
for the effort of sculling against the wind. But at last, during a lull
in the storm, his eyes wandered to his companion's face and remained
fixed there with a steadiness of gaze which Pearl found anything but
reassuring.
"The wind is abating," he finally said. "It is fortunate, as I wish to
ask you something, Pearl."
Mrs. Nugent did not reply, but her heart sank within her.
For some moments Lord Martinworth still rowed on, while it seemed as if
his words were likely to be verified. Though the roughness of the water
still tossed the helpless little boat, the wind had temporarily almost
dropped.
"We can drift in safety, now," he said, and shipping his oars, he leant
toward Pearl.
"Pearl," he said very gently, "I want you to be true. I want you to
frankly answer one or two questions which, considering our former
friendship, I consider I have more than a right to ask. First of all,"
and he paused a moment, "I wish to know, do you still love me, Pearl?"
The question came abruptly. Mrs. Nugent was suffering considerable pain,
and was feeling very angry and rather frightened. She for a moment
forgot the past,--the devoted intercourse of former years--everything
but the present trying situation,--and her answer without hesitation was
sharp and hard.
"You have no right whatsoever to ask me such a question. And you know
it. It is an action unworthy of you, to take advantage of my
helplessness, to place me in such an extremely unpleasant position. But
as you have thought fit to question me, I will not be such a coward as
to shirk the answer. No, Dick, I certainly do not care for you any
longer. All that is passed. My sentiments have--have--changed. I can
only thank God that all that folly is over."
The words had hardly left Pearl's mouth before she bitterly regretted
them. She knew they were harsh and cruel, and she was grieved indeed
when she saw the change that came over Lord Martinworth's face that she
had let her sharp tongue and irritable temper get the better of her.
He winced as if she had struck him, and his cheeks turned white beneath
the sunburn.
"Thank you," he replied with bitterness. "You are certainly carrying out
my request to the letter, and are frank enough. So this is the reward
for the devotion of years. Well! your answer explains many things," he
added musingly. "First of all I learn, that not only do you not love me
now, but what is more, that you never really cared for me, never loved
me as I loved you. I was a blind fool not to have understood that fact
many years ago. You gave me proofs enough, God knows."
"I beg," retorted Pearl, but in a gentler tone, "that you will not
discuss this question, Dick. Did you not promise to bury what has gone?
Why move these gravestones of the past? Will you not continue rowing?
The wind is rising again. I have nothing on but this thin, white gown,
and I am cold and very anxious to get home."
"No," answered Martinworth sternly, "I will not go on rowing for the
present. When I made that promise the situation was entirely different.
You were not then--then----I have another question still to ask. May I
request that you will give me as frank a reply to my second question as
you did to my first?"
Mrs. Nugent remained silent. She shivered and looked anxiously towards
the fast darkening shore.
"I am really sorry to inconvenience you," continued her companion, "but
it is absolutely necessary for the purpose that I have in view that
these questions should be answered clearly, frankly, and without delay.
In fact it entirely depends on the nature of the replies I receive
whether I carry out that purpose or not."
"I don't know what you are talking about," replied Pearl petulantly. "I
am miserably cold and wet. My foot is paining me very much. Only get me
home, and I will answer as many questions as you please."
"Pardon me. One more question at least must be answered now. But I will
not delay you long. Pearl Norrywood"--he unconsciously used her former
name--"as you one day expect to stand before the Throne, tell me the
truth. I must--I will know the truth. Are you or are you not engaged to
be married to de Güldenfeldt?"
As Martinworth uttered these words he leant further forward, gazing
intently at Pearl.
Mrs. Nugent did not respond. She flushed, her eyes falling beneath her
companion's penetrating glance. Fortunate indeed that she averted them
for a time. Thus for a short period, was she saved the sight of the
wildness of expression that slowly crept over the face of her companion,
as the question brought forth no immediate reply.
Mrs. Nugent continued silent. It was not from any desire to prevaricate
or to avoid telling the necessary truth that she hesitated. But at the
moment that the question was asked, so sternly and so impressively, it
struck her like a blow how very different might have been the answer if
her letter to de Güldenfeldt had been written and despatched, instead of
being still to write. She began to realise, to dread, that this one act
of procrastination--vacillation--weakness of mind--whatever it might be
called--was likely to be productive of calamitous results, feared and
foreseen for weeks.
As this thought passed through her mind she instinctively raised her
eyes to Martinworth's face. That one glance was sufficient to impress on
her the certainty that she was in the presence, not only of a madman,
but of one who, with the premeditation, vindictiveness and ferocity of
his type, was she was firmly convinced, contemplating her speedy
destruction.
Strange to say, the conviction of this fact caused her no immediate
terror. Though of a naturally timid and nervous temperament, Pearl, at
this moment of terrible and full assurance, felt none of those
depressing fears that had assailed her of late with such crushing and
ceaseless persistency. She knew now, that from the moment she had seen
that look in Martinworth's eyes weeks ago, she had been preparing
herself for that fate which she had then told herself must surely one
day overtake her. She was alone on a stormy lake with a man no longer
master of himself or of his actions. The wind, which had risen again,
was tearing round in circles, the rain was dashing in their faces, and
the little boat was helplessly tossing first one side and then the
other. She looked up and saw the angry heavens, she looked down and saw
the angry waters, she looked before her and saw what was far more
terrible than either--the angry eyes, wild and threatening, fixed upon
her face. And yet Pearl felt no fear. Not for one moment did she
contemplate the thought of hiding the truth by vain subterfuges, of
cloaking it by prevarications. She knew that in time, all in good time,
an answer must be given. And she likewise knew that that answer would
seal her fate. She only wanted a short moment, a little space to think.
Not to weep over herself or bemoan her own destiny, for an overwhelming
pity for the man before her, a deep compassion, took the place in
Pearl's breast, for the time being, of all natural feelings of terror
and dismay. It was her firm conviction that this man, who had once been
her tender and adoring lover, was in a short space of time about to
become her assassin, and she asked herself, as she gazed into his
terrible face, what must not have been his sufferings of late, that a
transformation such as this should have taken place in the once gentle,
well-balanced and affectionate nature. As Pearl sat there, looking
silently and unflinchingly into those eyes, her individuality for the
moment seemed merged into Martinworth's. Now for the first time did she
truly realise the misery and the despair that had gripped his soul when,
without a murmur, that evening in Tokyo he had left her, resigning all
claim upon her for ever. The strain caused by this voluntary
renunciation of the desire of years had, she knew well, proved too great
for the highly-strung, nervous disposition, and the will, once under
such calm self-control, the brain, once so superior, had ultimately
collapsed under this last final effort of supreme self-denial.
This tragic and undoubtable fact was brought vividly before her as she
continued to gaze back into those eyes. She had retained her own
self-respect, she had acted up to the principles of her youth, she had
kept intact the promise she had made--but--but--on the other side, she
had broken a heart, she had ruined a happy and a useful life, and above
all--she had unwittingly driven a man mad for love of her! And in agony
of mind, Pearl asked herself the question, had she done right? Oh! had
she done right?
And all this time, while Lord Martinworth's inquiry remained unanswered,
his face was growing more terrible, the steely blue eyes more bloodshot.
"Answer me," he said, and he leant forward and caught her by the wrist.
"Are you engaged to de Güldenfeldt? Do you hear me, Pearl? Answer me!"
At the contact of his hand on her wrist, Pearl drew back and shuddered.
She at last felt her nerves giving way under the tension. And she was
aware that all feelings of self-reproach, regret, and compassion were
becoming submerged in a more natural sentiment--that of genuine terror
for her own safety. She looked despairingly around her, and saw with
horror and dismay that they were drifting towards the river that led to
the waterfall. The current was swift and strong at that place, and she
well knew that if Martinworth did not at once take the oars it would
merely be a matter of minutes before they were dashed over the brink
into eternity! The knowledge flashed upon her as they sped nearer and
nearer to the fatal spot that this was the end that from the moment he
had lifted her into his boat he had decided upon. Again Pearl shuddered,
as her eyes fled once more to his face, and she knew that further delay
was impossible, and that she must speak.
"Dick," she replied, "you will kill me. I know it. I read your intention
in your face. You loved me once, Dick, but now your love has turned to
hate. It is clear enough. Your hate is so bitter that you will kill me.
But I have never told you a lie and I will not die with one on my lips.
Yes, I--I am engaged to Monsieur de Güldenfeldt, but I am not----"
The sentence remained unfinished. Martinworth waited for no more. He
started from his seat, and shouting wildly, so that his ringing voice
was heard far above the roaring of the wind and the waters: "Never,
Pearl! Never! Mine at least in death," he stretched his arms towards
her, tore her from where she was crouching on her seat, and clasped her
to him. For a moment they stood thus, locked in each other's arms,
tottering with unsteady feet in the fragile boat, while he gazed with
all the frenzy of insanity into her white face. Then as his eyes
lingered on hers, large with terror and despair, his sinister intentions
appeared to soften, for a change, sudden and complete, passed over his
face, transforming the wild glare of madness into a look of grief,
despairing sorrow and reproof--sad and mournful in the extreme. He
stooped down, let his eyes dwell on hers with the adoring look of old,
kissed her once tenderly, almost reverentially, on the forehead, and
replacing her as gently upon her seat as he had torn her roughly from
it, Lord Martinworth balanced himself for one second on the edge of the
boat, then plunged headlong into the seething lake!
One stifled cry mingled with the fury of the wind as, with the violence
of Martinworth's movement, the little craft upset, and Pearl Nugent,
precipitated into the water, was hurled through the rushing current, and
carried helplessly towards the waterfall!