When Lucian left her, Amethyst stood leaning over the stile, which, at
the end of the long cypress walk, led through a little wood into the
fields. She watched his brisk active movements, his tall slight figure,
with a proud sense of possession. In the morning he would come back
again, through the shade and sunlight of the woodland path, and if, as
might be, she were watching for him, would wave a greeting where now he
waved a farewell. She turned as he passed out of sight, and started to
see her graceful, charming mother coming down the long walk towards her.
"My darling child," said Lady Haredale, with a little anxious frown on
her sweet face, "I made the best of it just now; but I'm in mortal
trouble. Will you help me?"
"Oh, mother dear, what is it?" said Amethyst, as Lady Haredale put her
arm round her waist, and walked on by her side.
"Well, dear, the truth is that I owe some money. When people are in
such a dreadful state of _hard-upishness_ as your poor papa and I, one
can do nothing like other people. You see how careful I am about my
clothes, I'm not a bit extravagant; but just a little game of cards is a
most innocent diversion--when one can afford it. I know it's just the
one pleasure I can't resist--my poor old daddy couldn't either--which
was why your dear father only got about three farthings with me--a thing
Charles has never forgiven."
"Oh, mother," said Amethyst, breathlessly, "then don't buy the velvet
dress. And I would just have a plain white to be married in."
"Oh, darling, that's nothing to do with it. But I'm going to confide in
my girl, and she'll keep my secret, won't she?"
"Oh, yes--yes!"
"Well, I lost some money to Lady Saint George, and the awkward thing is,
that she is a distant cousin of Mrs Leigh's; as rich as Croesus the
Saint Georges are really. But she hates me--always did--and lately she
has made friends with Charles. I wouldn't know Charles, I think a line
should be drawn, but she chose to take him up, and actually `confided'
to him my little delay. That was mean, and I hate meanness. Well,
Charles and his father had one of their pleasant interviews; Charles
wanted money as usual, and when my lord couldn't give it him, and
complained of his constant drains upon him, he had the audacity to say
that he was not the only culprit!"
"Oh, mother, can't you pay it?"
"I must, my dear child; you see poor, good old Tony has managed hundreds
of little affairs for me; but now it will be different, as he has told
me."
"Did _he_ lend you money?"
"My dear, he was good-nature itself. Besides, one can't go oneself and
sell one's poor little things. One would be cheated, and it is so much
nicer, isn't it, to leave those matters to a man to manage?"
"Won't you--ask father?"
"My dear child, no! He can't give me any money. It is you, my darling,
who must help your poor mother. Will you give up your amethysts at
least for a time? They are really of value."
"I would give up everything on earth," said Amethyst.
"Well then, you will make it all quite easy. I am writing a note to
Tony, and you shall just direct it for me, and take it down to the
post."
"Why should I direct it?"
"Why, he is staying at Loseby. Miss Verrequers, his heiress, is a
connection of the Riddells, you know, our Riddells' cousins. They are
there together. I don't want to appear in the matter at all, but you
might be writing to him about your wedding presents. I must be most
careful not to make any trouble for him, poor fellow! Miss Verrequers
wouldn't understand our friendship." Amethyst felt an instinctive
shrinking from directing the letter, though she could hardly tell why.
She was confused and puzzled. The whole story was so out of her
experience, her mother fascinated her so much, that she could not judge
the case on its own merits.
"We are going to. Loseby on Thursday," she said, "to a tennis party."
"Yes, I know, that will be the opportunity for giving him the amethysts.
Come, dearest, and let me give you the note. And, Amethyst, Lucian, of
course, mustn't guess at this little _contretemps_. You promise?"
Amethyst shrank again. She could not have told Lucian of her mother's--
what?--shame seemed too strong a word--discredit? Yet to promise
secrecy towards him went against her, but at her mother's desire, it
never struck her that it was wrong.
"Yes, mamma," she said confusedly, and followed Lady Haredale into the
house, directed the envelope in the modern, upright, school-girl hand,
which certainly bore no resemblance to Lady Haredale's sloping
penmanship, and prepared to take it to the post-office. As she came
down-stairs she saw Tory standing in the hall, her legs apart and her
hands behind her back.
"Amethyst," she said, "Kat and I mean you to know. It's quite true what
I said just now. Una's gone nearly off her head over Tony getting
married. She's a perfect fool about him. But it's his fault, he's an
awful spoon is Tony. So is she; you'd better go and talk to her."
"But--she's a child," said Amethyst; so much taken aback, that she
forgot that the precocious Tory was more of a child still.
"Oh--little girls are amusing. He thought it didn't matter. Una ought
to have known it was nonsense."
"But mother said it was nonsense, just now--of Una's."
"Very likely. That's what she would think."
Amethyst turned and fled. She felt as if she could neither speak nor
look. A horror seized her of "kind good Tony," and she ran across the
park, in haste to get the note addressed to him out of her hand.
As she was about to put it into the box, Sylvester Riddell came up with
a handful of letters.
"Good afternoon, Miss Haredale," he said, "I hope this lovely weather
will last for my cousin's party at Loseby."
The sense of unaccustomed secrecy made Amethyst give a guilty start; she
dropped the letter, Sylvester picked it up, and the address in the
clear-marked writing caught his eye. He noticed it, of course, by no
word or look, but her crimson blush startled him.
Why should she write to a man whom, in common with Lucian Leigh, he
detested; and why, if she did so, should she look so frightened and
ashamed?
She dropped the letter into the box, and with a murmured excuse of being
in a hurry, went back with winged footsteps, but a heavy heart.
She took herself to task for her folly in being so much startled and
upset, but the shadow of half-understood evil is very frightful to a
young soul; and she turned, with almost a sense of relief, from her
mother's revelations, to what she believed to be more within her
comprehension, Una's "silliness" about Major Fowler.
She had, of course, seen many girls who were "silly," and meaning to
scold and coax Una out of such folly, went straight up to her room in
search of her, opening the door without waiting for an answer to her
knock.
The girl was crouched up in a chair all in a heap, and glared at
Amethyst under her hair, as if she would have liked to spring at her.
"What is the matter, Una?" said Amethyst. "Won't you tell me all about
it? Why are you so miserable, you poor little dear?"
"I mean to tell you. I hate to see you think the world is all sugar,
when I know it is so wicked. I'll teach you knowledge of the world."
"Well?" said Amethyst composedly, and sitting down on the side of the
bed. She was too much of a modern school-girl to be easily impressed by
heroics.
"My lady made a great deal of him," began Una abruptly, "because he lent
her money. After he'd told _her_ all about Mrs Fowler's ill-temper he
used to catch _me_ in the passage and kiss me, and say he wished _I_ was
his little wife. He took me out long days, and people said I was so
little it didn't matter. And I used to put little notes in his
great-coat pocket, and he'd stick his in little corners for me. And
when he sat up smoking, I'd slip out when I'd been sent to bed, and run
down and have such good times. He told _me_ a great deal more of his
sorrows than he ever told my lady! And he'd plan how we'd be married
when I was seventeen, and go in a yacht to a lovely island in the south.
I was happy then; I didn't care about being married. It was just
enough to love him, love him, love him! And _now_, he's been cooling
off ever since we came here, and I've just been dying for him. And it's
over, it's over! I won't live! I won't exist without him! I'd like to
kill him. Last time he was here, he laughed and made jokes. It wasn't
a joke once. He was just a fool about me then. He has sucked out my
life like a vampire!"
Amethyst clenched her fingers together.
"I wish _I_ could punish him!" she said. "He is a wicked man--a
villain."
"Oh no, no, no!" screamed Una. "He can't help it. He's an angel, and
I'd die for him this minute!" and she flung herself down on her bed,
sobbing pitifully.
It came slowly over Amethyst how dreadful a story Una had been telling
her, how unfortunate a fate had fallen on the poor child. Una might be
naughty; but Amethyst saw dimly that no amount of "naughtiness" could
bear any relation to the great injury that had been done to her by the
thoughtless mother, who had never taken care of her, and by the selfish
man who, for his own pleasure, had excited her childish passion.
An instinct of pity greater than she could understand came over her; she
could not speak a word of blame, but knelt down, and laid her face close
to Una's, herself crying bitterly. Una nestled up to her, and sobbed
more quietly, and at length Amethyst looked up.
"Now," she said, "however bad it is, we have got to leave off crying.
You must go to bed, Una, and I shall see about some supper for you;
_I'll_ take care of you, now I know, and he shall never have anything
more to do with you."
A look, which Amethyst did not follow, came into Una's eyes; but she
gave a long sigh, as of relief to her feelings, submitted to Amethyst's
care, and finally settled herself down to sleep, not perhaps more
miserable than usual. Amethyst went away from her, and stood by the
passage window in the soft evening light, looking over the grave old
garden, the peaceful spot which she had rejoiced in calling "home."
Affection, emotion, the ignorance of innocent girlhood as to the
proportion of one evil to another, confused her; but her brain was clear
and strong, and, through all the glamour of her mother's charm, she saw
the face of evil, and never, try as she would, could shut her eyes to it
again.