AMY TO THE RESCUE.
"Pearl, what is the matter with you?"
This question was asked sharply by Mrs. Rawlinson, as she scrutinised
her cousin's face with her quick eyes.
"Matter? Oh, nothing," answered Pearl, flushing under the examination.
"Nonsense, my dear! Haven't I known you from babyhood? And for you to
sit there and tell me that you are in your usual equable state of mind
is simply ridiculous. I haven't seen you for a week. Not since the
Cherry party. You have not condescended to come to my house, and each
time I have come to yours I have been told that you were out, and, what
is more, have had the door calmly shut in my face by that extremely
impertinent 'boy' of yours. Amy tells me she has met with the same fate.
May I ask the reason of this strange behaviour?"
"Certainly," replied Pearl, calmly. "You may ask what you like, but I
don't fancy the reply will enlighten you much. I was busy saying my
prayers."
Mrs. Rawlinson stared, as well she might, at this unexpected answer to
her question.
Pearl laughed nervously at the expression on her cousin's face.
"Oh, you need have no fear for the state of my brain," she replied. "I
have finished now. I prayed for the last time yesterday evening."
"Pearl," replied Mrs. Rawlinson gravely, as she rose and began fastening
her cloak. "I don't understand you in this flippant mood. I have never
known you to joke about sacred subjects before, and I can't imagine what
possesses you now. Your looks, too, have changed. You seem to have grown
quite thin in a week. Your eyes are shining, and your cheeks have two
red spots on them. What is the meaning of all this?"
Pearl looked impatiently at the clock, an action which as she intended,
was not lost on her cousin.
"You are going out?" she said; "well, good-bye. We shall meet at the
Prime Minister's ball to-night, I suppose, and then dearest, you will
have plenty of time as you do not dance, to tell me what is troubling
you."
Pearl gave a sigh of relief as the door closed behind Mrs. Rawlinson.
"Oh, these relations!" she ejaculated. "Much as we may love and
appreciate them on ordinary occasions, how utterly wearisome and _de
trop_ they prove themselves at certain moments of one's existence."
Once more she glanced at the clock, noticing that the hands pointed to
half-past five.
"Three hours and a half more," she sighed, as, for the twentieth time
that day, she drew from her pocket Martinworth's passionate reply to her
summons. "How shall I ever get through them?"
* * * * *
At a quarter to nine that evening, just as Amy Mendovy was rising from
the table, with the intention of dressing for one of the events of the
spring--the Prime Minister's ball--a note from Mrs. Nugent was put into
her hands.
"Dearest Amy," it ran, "As you love me come to me immediately on
receipt of this line. I am in great trouble, and in dire need of
you. Give up the ball for my sake, and come to me, I implore
you. Yours,
PEARL."
"P.S.--I am not ill."
Amy's face clouded. What! give up the ball! This ball on which she had
so greatly reckoned for the sole reason that she knew Sir Ralph would be
present? She had long ago decided in her own mind that this was to be
the occasion on which might be expressed, without loss of self-respect,
a reasonable amount of contrition and regret. There were moments when
Amy flattered herself that she knew her power well enough to be fairly
certain that she had only to offer the olive branch to see it promptly
accepted. And yet again, at other times, she felt considerable doubt as
to her advances being well received. Sir Ralph's conduct of late had
certainly not held out much promise of success. She had not seen him
since the garden party, and her vanity suffered more than one wound as
the disagreeable conviction slowly dawned upon her--that he was
persistently keeping out of her way. From all sides she heard of his
devoted attendance upon Lady Martinworth. Though Amy had more than once
seen this lady she did not know her. In moments of depression therefore,
she found herself picturing her rival as the owner--if not of beauty--of
much fascination and every charm, coupled with those powerful weapons, a
clever woman's designing and seductive wiles.
Lady Martinworth would have been the first to have felt intense
amusement at such gifted and extremely unlikely traits of character
being attributed to her.
Poor Amy was therefore, somewhat perplexed and annoyed, and at times she
felt extremely sorry for herself. She concluded that she had already
been more than amply punished for those few bars played so thoughtlessly
on the piano, and sometimes she declared to herself that it was an
imperative necessity to end the present unsettled situation. These last
few weeks of uncertainty had taught her, more than all the previous
months put together, how true and sincere was her love for Ralph
Nicholson. She could only pray now that her own foolish conduct had not
for ever put it out of her power to prove this fact to him.
The ball, she knew, would settle matters one way or the other, and it
was with a feverish anxiety, very unlike the usual indifferent
_insouciante_ Amy, that she awaited the evening's event.
And now the receipt of this frantic little note upset all her
calculations, destroying at one blow all her brilliant castles in the
air. She hesitated. Pearl herself wrote she was not ill. What reason
strong enough could therefore exist to cause Amy to relinquish this
entertainment, an entertainment where so much that was momentous might
occur. Her absence from the ball would cause Sir Ralph to doubtlessly
put a wrong construction upon her action, and as he never came to see
her now, when should she have another chance of explaining matters to
him? No, she would not go to Pearl. It was really asking too much. She
could not give up this opportunity, even for her cousin for whom her
affection was so great. But the moment that Amy arrived at this
determination, and as she read the note again, she realised that this
was no childish whim on Pearl's part, that her presence for some reason
unknown was necessary to her cousin, and such being the case, her own
wishes, her own inclinations, must certainly be ignored.
There was a suspicion of tears in her eyes as, putting the note into her
pocket, she rose from the table and looked across at her aunt.
"Auntie," she said, "I am sorry, but I can't go to the ball to-night.
You and Uncle must go without me."
"What's this nonsense?" growled Mr. Rawlinson. "What business have your
aunt and I skipping about at balls? We are both too old to make fools of
ourselves. Our object in going is simply to look after you, and if you
choose to take a ridiculous whim into your head to stay at home, why, we
stay at home too, that's all."
And with a look on his face that expressed: "Nothing in heaven or earth
will tear me hence," Mr. Rawlinson settled himself by the fire and
deliberately lit a cigar.
"I'm dreadfully sorry to have to give it up," replied Amy, as she went
towards the door, "but Pearl wants me. She writes very pressingly, and
though she says she is not ill, I feel I must go."
"How tiresome of Pearl!" exclaimed Mrs. Rawlinson, "and yet--though I
have no doubt your disappointment is very great, my dear--I think you
are right to go to her. She seemed strangely unlike herself this
afternoon when I was there, and I came away with the impression that she
had something on her mind. If that's the case, I should have thought the
best person to help her would be myself. But I certainly have no
intention of being huffy with the poor child. Life is too short for such
sillinesses. Go and cheer her up, Amy, and if you are not back by
eleven, I shall know that you are spending the night there, and will
give orders that the maid is to take over your things. Good night, my
dear," she continued, embracing her niece, "take the carriage and send
it back for me. Your uncle may stay at home smoking his horrid old cigar
if he likes, but I, for one, certainly intend going to the ball. I
should never look the dear Marquis and Marchioness in the face again if
no member of the family were to put in an appearance to-night. There are
occasions when it is absolutely necessary to sacrifice one's self on the
altar of duty. This is one of them."
Amy exchanged a sly glance with Mr. Rawlinson as she left the room. They
both knew Rosina.
As she entered Mrs. Nugent's drawing-room, Amy, glancing at the clock,
noticed that it marked exactly half-past nine. Three-quarters of an hour
had therefore elapsed since she had first received the note summoning
her.
"Am I in time?" she enquired breathlessly, as she went towards her
cousin. She did not know why she asked such a question, unless it was
that the expectant look on Pearl's face seemed to call for it.
Pearl was standing near the grand piano. She looked as if she had just
risen from it, and her hand was pressed against her heart. Her tall
figure was draped in a tea-gown of white chiffon and of silver
embroidery, and her face, framed in its masses of auburn hair, was
almost as colourless as the gown. The grey eyes were the only features
that moved in this countenance that seemed carved in stone. They were
restless and sorrowful--almost despairing--and Amy stopped short in her
approach as their glance fell upon her.
Pearl, perceiving the look of frightened astonishment, turned away, and
said in a low voice: "I thought--I thought when I heard the bell, that
it was--that it was--some one else. But of course I at once remembered,
Amy dear, that I had sent for you. It is good of you, very good of you
to give up the ball--and to come to me."
Amy went up to her cousin and put her arms round her.
"Of course I came," she said. "You wrote that you were in need of me,
and I see you are right. What is it, darling? Whom were you expecting
when you heard the bell?"
"Amy," Pearl said excitedly, clasping her tighter to her, "promise me
that you will stay by me--close by me all the time--with your arms about
me, as they are now. They are so strong, these arms of yours. I feel so
safe with them around me, and with your honest eyes looking at me, Amy.
You will stay and sleep with me to-night, will you not? You will not
leave me a minute--until--until--until----" she hesitated.
"No, Pearl, I will not leave you," answered Amy. "Of course I will stay
the night, if you wish it. Come, let us sit on the sofa. I will keep my
arms around you, and you shall tell me how I can help you. Come,
darling, lay your head on my shoulder--so, and tell me what is
distressing you. What do you fear?"
"No--no--Amy, I cannot--I dare not tell you. But you will see--you will
understand shortly, very shortly--in a minute--two minutes. You will
know, and then you will want to leave me. But you will not--you must
not, Amy. Promise me you will not leave me. Whatever you may see,
whatever you may hear, promise me you will stay to-night."
"Calm yourself, Pearl. I have already promised. Have I not come to be
near you? Hark! there is the bell."
The two women rose instinctively to their feet, with their arms around
each other's waists, their eyes fixed upon the door.
Amy had caught Pearl's excitement. She felt as if her nerves were strung
on wires while waiting for the door to open. Her sense of hearing seemed
intensified, as first she heard the front door open and close, then the
slight sounds connected with an arrival, and lastly, the Japanese
'boy's' shuffling gait, followed by the quick, firm footsteps of a man.
It seemed a century to both women before the door finally opened. At
length, however, the handle turned, and Lord Martinworth stood upon the
threshold! He took one step forward. In his eyes was a glad light, and
round his lips a smile. But he ventured no farther into the room. His
face changed as if by magic. He seemed rooted to the spot, his eyes
resting on the two women with their terrified faces, clasped in each
other's arms. Perfect silence reigned in the room as the three stood
motionless, staring into each other's eyes. Amy, half supporting Pearl,
felt her form quivering in her arms, and observing the pallor of her
face feared she was about to lose consciousness.
She led her cousin to the sofa, then went towards Martinworth.
"Pardon me, Lord Martinworth," she said, bowing slightly, "I see my
cousin is not in a fit state to go through the form of introduction. I
am Miss Mendovy, and I know who you are, for you were pointed out to me
at the garden party. My cousin is not well, and she--she sent for me. I
had just arrived when you came. Will--will you not sit down?"
It was in a state of desperation that Amy made this commonplace request.
If she had followed her inclinations she would have shrieked aloud--"For
God's sake, go! Don't you understand that every moment you are standing
here is torture to this woman?"
But Lord Martinworth did not seem to hear either the request or the
words that preceded it. He remained motionless, like one paralysed,
staring at Pearl, who, with ashen face and closed eyes, was lying back
on the sofa in a state of semi-collapse.
In that moment he realised to the full all that she had experienced
before and since she had sent him that letter of summons. For the first
time in his life he understood, through what a deadly conflict must pass
a woman who by nature is virtuous and chaste, before she casts honour,
and purity, and self-respect to the winds. Strange to say, he forgot
himself--his own bitter humiliation and disappointment. He forgot the
rapture he had felt on receiving her summons, and the despair and rage
that had taken its place when his eyes first alighted on the shrinking
form, sheltered in the girl's arms. He forgot all the varied,
conflicting emotions that had taken possession of him since his entrance
into Pearl's drawing room, and, as his eyes remained fixed on the
shame-stricken woman before him, he found himself thinking only of her.
Once before, in this same room, when he had watched her weeping on that
same sofa, he had partially divined what suffering this woman, whom he
loved, and for whom at that moment he would gladly have given his life,
was undergoing. But it was only now, seeing her before him almost
senseless with grief and shame, that the full magnitude of the torture
she was enduring flashed upon him. He watched her there, breathing hard,
without a trace of colour in her cheeks, and with her hands pressed
against her heart, and his whole being went out in pity to her. And,
mingled with the pity, was a feeling of admiration--almost of
veneration. He realised to the full that the hesitation, the faltering
weakness had reached a climax, that her better self had conquered, and
though crushed for the moment, he saw her rising triumphant from the
struggle, a nobler and a stronger woman.
How long he stood there, watching that shrinking form--troubled,
turbulent thoughts following each other in quick rapidity through his
brain--Martinworth never knew. He did not feel the girl's antagonistic
yet enquiring eyes upon him, indeed, he was indifferent to, almost
unconscious of her presence. He knew that he was bidding adieu, an
eternal adieu, to this the only love of his life. He felt none of the
bitterness, or unreasonable anger that had assailed him when Pearl, with
such determination, left him three years before, for, judging now by his
own sentiments, he knew that what she had then written was indeed the
truth--that in her renunciation of him she had sacrificed herself and
her love for his sake. But he would show her that he also could be
prompt in this spirit of self-sacrifice. He would prove his love by
leaving her, and she would thus learn and appreciate that, erring man
though he was, he also could renounce, he also could be strong.
Yes! he would bid adieu to her now. The love, the passion of years
would, he knew well, remain with him till the grave, but--he swore to
himself--never again, by word or by action, would he raise that look of
agony and of shame upon Pearl Nugent's face.
He took a step towards her, and, kneeling beside her sofa, he lifted the
hand hanging listlessly down, and pressed it between his own.
"Good-bye," he said, "I am leaving you, dear. You have conquered once
again, Pearl. You have always conquered. The struggle has been very
great, harder than ever this time, but once more you have chosen the
right. You would always do right in the end. So loving you as much as I
venerate you, Pearl, I leave you, dear. From me you have nothing more to
fear. I ask your forgiveness for the suffering I have caused you," and
raising to his lips the hand which he still held, he kissed it
once--twice, and waiting for no reply, looking neither to the right nor
to the left, Lord Martinworth walked towards the door.
Pearl Nugent half rose on her sofa. She watched with wide-open,
miserable eyes. Then let him go without a word.
The hall door closed. For a long time neither of the women spoke. Amy
glanced once more at the clock, and noticed that it wanted ten minutes
to ten. Lord Martinworth had been in the room seven or eight minutes,
and during that time Pearl had not once opened her lips.
It was, nevertheless, Mrs. Nugent who, arousing herself, broke the
silence.
"You know now, Amy, why I wanted you," she said in a low, weak voice. "I
thank God that you came, for you have saved me. You must not hate me,
dear. I have been a very foolish, a very wicked woman. Perhaps I ought
not to have sent for you, a girl, and yet--and yet--you have saved me,
Amy."
"My dear Pearl," replied Amy, smiling through her tears, "don't get
tragic, for goodness sake. We surely have had enough of that kind of
thing. And it's nonsense about my having saved you, whatever you may
mean by that. Of one thing I am certain, that my presence in your house
this evening in no wise affected Lord Martinworth's conduct. He would
have acted in precisely the same manner if I had not been here. The man
is a gentleman. Anyone can see that. Don't make any confidences, dear,"
she added, as Pearl was about to speak. "You are just in the mood to
tell me all your secrets, and, believe me, you will only regret it
later. So I will be magnanimous, and will refrain from asking you
questions. Besides, you know, I am not a fool. I can guess a good deal,
so my magnanimity is not so very tremendous after all. Now, dear, don't
let us talk any more, but I will sing you something while you lie back
and shut your eyes."
Amy strolled towards the piano, and, placing her hands on the keys,
watched Pearl from under her long eyelashes. Neither her soothing
presence, nor the sweetest lullaby she could think of, seemed however,
at first to have much effect upon her cousin's excited nerves. Pearl
walked restlessly up and down the room, trailing her white dress behind
her, with sad eyes shining feverishly from out the still whiter face,
looking like a troubled spirit from another world.
For some time she continued pacing the room. Then, as if struck with a
sudden idea, she unlocked a drawer of her writing-table, extracted from
some hidden recess Martinworth's reply to her letter, read it
deliberately through, tore it into a hundred pieces, and cast it into
the flames. She watched it burn until nothing but the blackened ashes
remained. At length, with a sigh of exhaustion, she stretched herself
once more on the sofa, and ere long Amy had the satisfaction of
perceiving the eyelids droop, and the weary and worn-out Pearl fall into
a dreamless slumber.
Amy continued playing low strains of music for some time longer. Then
she rose noiselessly, and seated herself near Pearl. For over an hour
Amy sat silent and motionless watching the sorrowful and beautiful face,
on the cheeks of which traces of tears still remained.
And as she watched, hardly daring to breathe for fear of rousing the
sleeper, her thoughts dwelt on many matters connected with Pearl. The
full details of the divorce had been studiously kept from her, but Amy
would not have been a modern young lady if she had not been acquainted
with a good deal more than her elders gave her the credit of knowing.
She was perfectly aware that Pearl had run away from some man who had
been mixed up in her case, and who had wanted to marry her, and though
she had never heard his name, by the simple process of putting two and
two together, it was not difficult to divine that the man concerned was
Lord Martinworth.
"How he adores her," thought Amy. "What a pity she did not marry him,
instead of throwing him into the clutches of that awful woman."
For, with the harshness of youth, it was thus that Miss Mendovy
designated Lord Martinworth's wife. Her imagination pictured "that awful
woman" whirling in the giddy waltz with Sir Ralph Nicholson, while big
tears of disappointment clouded her pretty eyes. She wondered if her act
of self-sacrifice had been wasted or the reverse. But even as she
debated this question in her own mind, she recalled once more the look
of triumphant anticipation on Martinworth's face as he entered the room
that evening, contrasting so painfully with Pearl's expression of shame,
her action of shrinking terror. The remembrance of these two faces at
that portentous moment were imprinted vividly on her brain. And Amy knew
that it was needless to doubt any longer. Her question was answered.