"He is married and he is coming out here!" Pearl echoed the words in a dull voice as she stared into Sir Ralph's sympathetic face. "Dick married and coming out here with his wife! Good God! what shall I do?" and she remained motionless with her distressed eyes fixed on Nicholson.
"My dear Mrs. Nugent--my dear lady," blundered Ralph, "please don't look like that. For God's sake, I implore you to sit down! Say--do--something. I wish I hadn't told you. But I thought it best, for of course, you are bound to meet them if they come here. So I thought--I thought you had better be prepared. But confound it all! I would have risked anything rather than that you should have taken it so badly."
This last phrase roused Pearl from the dismay and stupefaction experienced on first hearing Nicholson's unexpected news. She managed to smile while she nervously put her hand to her forehead and pushed back the curls of her hair. After all, who was Sir Ralph that she should betray herself like this? A friend, it is true; a valued friend who knew her history; but that was no reason why he should also become acquainted with her heart. With an effort that cost her much she was successful in recovering a certain amount of control over her features. She sat down with her back to the light, and, taking a book from a table, began turning over the leaves.
"Your news naturally interests me much," she said in a voice that she succeeded in rendering almost indifferent. "Of course, at first it took me by surprise. I--I'm sure I don't know why--but I--I--never thought Lord Martinworth would marry. Whom--whom has he? Sir Ralph, would you mind telling me if his wife is anyone I know? Whom has he married?"
Alas! for Pearl's reputation for imperturbability, these last questions were asked in a very low, a very unsteady voice.
"Oh yes, you know her. You must have seen her knocking about Town for a dozen seasons at least. He has married that extraordinary type: his cousin, Lady Harriet Joyce; the large, fair one, who generally goes by the name of 'Harry'"----
"Harry Joyce! Oh yes, I remember her," said Pearl quietly.
"She has run him down at last. She and her people have been trying it on for years, you know."
Pearl did not reply. When she next spoke it was excessively calmly, on a totally different subject.
But oh, the bitterness of it all! She sat and thought it all over when Sir Ralph had left her. So Martinworth had forgotten her so soon--so soon! And yet, she thought, ought she to blame him? Ought she not, instead of feeling this sentiment of utter despondency, utter disgust, be rejoicing that Martinworth by this step could henceforth no longer be anything nearer to her than an ordinary friend, an ordinary acquaintance? She accused herself over and over again for her inconsistency. She told herself that she was absurd, illogical, unreasonable. Had she not fled from this man--hidden herself from him--for the express purpose that he should forget her? Had she not advised him to marry some woman who could show an honest front to the world, and be a credit to him? And now that apparently after some delay he had obeyed her injunctions, what right had she to complain, to regret, to feel angry and bitter, and to cavil against the inconstancy of man?