Beyond was a distant view of Fujiyama still wrapped in its white mantle, though great bare places streaked the mountain, forming weird shadows where the snow had already melted. Pearl felt a certain companionship in this grand old mountain, solitary like herself. She would sit for hours watching it in all its different, but ever lovely aspects, at one time in its snowy covering almost dazzling the eyes in the brilliant morning sunshine, and later on at eventide but vaguely distinct through banks of heavy purple clouds, till gradually fading from view, Fuji would become merged into the fading sky, finally disappearing into the shadows of the darkening night.
Her eyes were dreamily fixed on Fuji now, standing out white and clear. She was not alone, for de Güldenfeldt lay stretched on the grass at her feet. His eyes, however, were employed in studying and admiring what at that moment he considered far more beautiful, far more entrancing, than any mountain in the world--namely, his companion's face.
Pearl was looking considerably younger and handsomer still than when she had left England. Ease of mind and a quiet life had accomplished their work, and the sweet placid face bore no traces of the storms that for a time had marred its beauty, and somewhat hardened its expression. Her past life was to her like an unhappy dream, from which she awoke, to discover with a feeling of infinite relief that it was indeed but a dream, a dream that had faded away for ever. She would find herself in her idle moments, trying to piece the past together, and failing most strangely in the attempt. The utterly miserable life she had spent with her husband, her long moral struggle with Martinworth, those terrible scenes in the Divorce Court, all the incidents of those bitter ten years,--now seemed one and all, like a vanishing and almost forgotten vision. At times she would deliberately set herself to the task of the retrospection of each miserable occurrence, each wretched episode, for there were periods when her present happiness had the effect of almost terrifying her--it seemed so impossible, so unreal. She would then tell herself that it were best and wisest that she should attempt to recall what once had been her life, what once had been her sorrow and despair.
Could this happiness, could this peace of mind really be hers? Would it not fade as a dream even as her past was so quickly vanishing from her mind? How strange! how very strange! she often thought, that she should experience this difficulty in remembering. Even Dick Martinworth was becoming a faint shadow, whose features, voice, and manner she often found it hard to recall. And yet she told herself she loved him as much as ever. She would place his photograph before her and try to remember scenes where they had been together, words that had been spoken between them, and she would be angry with herself to find how difficult it was for her to picture those scenes, to recollect those words. All seemed so far--so very far away, and somewhat to her dismay, Pearl was beginning to realise that she had almost achieved the object in view when she left England--that of complete obliteration, entire forgetfulness of the past.
"The world forgetting, by the world forgot," she quoted half aloud as she rose from her seat and stretched out her hand to pluck a branch of the heavily-laden cherry tree. "Such is now my life, but I do not complain, for it has certainly many advantages--especially one. No one here ever seems to care to ask awkward questions, and if they know my secret they treat me none the worse for it. Is it known, Monsieur de Güldenfeldt?" she inquired suddenly of her companion.
The question came very abruptly, so abruptly, that the Swedish Minister paused before replying. This was the first time since their meeting on the boat three years ago, that Pearl, in spite of her close friendship with Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, had in any way referred to her past history. He looked up quickly, wondering what was working in her mind.
"Why do you ask me that, my dear lady?" he eventually inquired, flicking the ash from his cigarette.
"Yes, why do I ask it?" she echoed. "Why do we ever wish to know anything that may possibly prove painful to us? Why not rest satisfied with this happy, dreamy, forgetting life? Why not, indeed? What a true lotus eater I have become since I came to live in this poetical, beautiful Japan. I hardly know myself. My life glides along, and I take no count of the hours, nor of the days, and to me it is indeed 'always afternoon.'
'With half closed eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half dream.'
Such, indeed, has been my life since I fled to this 'far-off land.' It is delicious, it is almost perfect. But it must not continue, for I know it is enervating. Yes, and what is more, my dear friend, downright demoralising."