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.
CHAPTER IX.
On the Verge of the Unknown.