It Happened in Japan

by Baroness Albert d' Anethan

"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.