When Sylvester got back to his rooms and sat down to smoke, and to
reflect in solitude, his feelings were in utter confusion.
He accepted Una's statement without a doubt, and, as was inevitable, it
filled him with self-reproach, and the confession of his devotion had
seemed but the poorest amends. But what good could devotion or
reparation do her now? Then it struck him that this imaginary fact had
been of infinitely more importance to Lucian than to himself, and that
the first duty was to undeceive him.--To undeceive him when it was too
late, for he had no idea where Lucian was; he could not telegraph
vaguely to the Rocky Mountains, it was impossible to say when a letter
would reach him, a letter that would tell him that he had been under a
delusion when he flung Amethyst aside, and that would bring him back, to
find her Lady Grattan. But she had not given Sir Richard her promise
yet. If words had any meaning, Sylvester was sure that he had learned
thus much. She was shrinking from the inevitable, her heart was not in
the brilliant prospect before her. What then--what then? _He_ could
not save her from it, she was caught in the toils. Perhaps she did not
wish to be rescued? Sylvester was not incapable of comprehending the
complexities of another nature, and, curiously enough, now that he had
heard what might restore Amethyst to the ideal heights of her girlhood,
he realised more clearly that she was no ideal, but a struggling human
creature, that his Iris needed help as well as worship.
He did not spend much of the short summer night in sleep, and when he
came down the next morning he found on his table a letter, in Lucian's
writing, and with an English stamp, sent on from Oxbridge. He tore it
open and read--
"Royal Hotel, Liverpool. _June 19th_.
"Dear Syl,--
"This letter will surprise you. We never got to the Rockies, nor saw
a bear. Just as we were well out of reach of the post and every other
comfort, Jackson had a nasty fall and hurt his back. There was an end
of everything for him. Rochdale joined another party, and went on,
but I thought I might have another chance, so I stayed to look after
him, and it was soon plain that he must come home. So here we are,
and his brother came to meet us, and will see to him. It was a great
sell for him. Now I'm looking at a yacht here, and think of going
round the north of Scotland and perhaps on to Norway. Will you come?
I suppose you are free now. My mothers abroad with the girls. How is
the book?
"Yours ever,--
"Lucian Leigh."
Sylvester put down the letter, and felt that the hand of Fate was upon
him. He despatched a telegram in haste--
"Coming. Don't settle about the yacht till you have seen me."
Then he got himself ready, and took the first train to Liverpool.
He arrived there in the afternoon, and found Lucian just come back from
seeing off his sick friend. He looked for once a little worn and tired,
and owned to having had much fatigue and anxiety.
"And now," he said, "will you have something to eat, and then come and
see the _Albatross_? She's a nice little cutter, and you look as if
you'd written too much poetry, and wanted sea air."
"Not at all," said Sylvester, with a nervous laugh. "But I've something
to tell you. Where can we find a quiet place?"
"Up-stairs, come along. We had to have a place where poor Jackson could
lie down. What's the matter? All right at home?--What's up, then?"
Sylvester followed him up-stairs into the hotel sitting-room, and stood
in the window, looking vaguely out at the street.
"Lucy," he said, getting quite cold with the effort, "I don't know if
you care to hear, but last night I met the Miss Haredales at a ball.
Una spoke to me, and, from what she said, I now feel absolutely certain
that your mother and I made a mistake. We saw Una Haredale with Major
Fowler, and, for the rest, there was some trumpery mystery as to
borrowing money for Lady Haredale. Amethyst was bound to secrecy, hence
all that seemed suspicious."
"Say that again," said Lucian, hoarsely. "It was really the other girl
you saw in the conservatory with Fowler?"
"Yes, no question of it."
"Then, what a thundering fool you were to mistake them!" cried Lucian
violently.
"I was," said Sylvester, with dejection. "But I was not the only
person, as you know. And I told you to trust her through thick and
thin. I told you she was an angel of purity and innocence, no matter
what I was fool enough to think I saw."
"It was so, or it wasn't," said Lucian.
"You saw her, _you_ questioned her," said Sylvester. "She denied it.
Una told the truth, then, and you did not believe either of them! I
don't excuse myself. I'd give my right hand not to have done her--and
you--such a wrong."
Lucian went over to the table and sat down. He trembled, and for some
moments did not speak. At last he said--
"There's no one to blame but me. If I did not know her, who should? I
thought I was right, and all the time I was wrong. There's only one
thing to be done now, to go back and renew my offer at once and
unconditionally, and to let every one know that I have done so."
"If your feelings remain the same--"
"My feelings? It's my duty."
"But," said Sylvester, breathlessly, "if--if you no longer loved her.--I
don't think--"
"Love her? Why, you know I do. I always did," said Lucian.
"Then, Lucy," said Sylvester, "I'm afraid that there's a good deal of
disappointment in store for you. If she is not engaged to Grattan, she
is on the point of it, and there are scores of other men after her. She
has had a great success, and all London raves about her. I doubt her
father's consent, and her pretensions are so great--"
"I can't help that," said Lucian. "It is my place to let every one
about her know that I wish to marry her, and that, if she refuses me, it
is her own doing. I'll go up through the night, and see her to-morrow."
He got up, and opening a travelling writing-case, took from it a little
parcel, containing a photograph in a leather frame. He looked at it for
a minute, then laid it before his friend.
It was the girl Amethyst, in a little country-made dress, with her hat
in her hand, and her eyes looking happily out, in pleased expectation of
the next thing that was coming, whatever it might be.
A deep blush coloured Sylvester's face. He felt for his own
pocket-book, and, taking from it a photograph wrapped in silver paper,
he opened it, and laid it beside Lucian's.
It was a half-length of the beautiful Miss Haredale in evening dress,
the amethysts round her slender throat, her white neck and her long
round arms uncovered, her face smiling and a little self-conscious;
Amethyst in society. Lucian gave a slight start.
"Is she as handsome as that?" he said slowly. "It's not like her."
"She does not always look like it; but never like the other, now," said
Sylvester with a sigh.
"How did you get it?"
"I bought it at a bazaar where she was selling. The Princesses sold
theirs there--and actresses and other celebrities--I thought you might
like to see it. That is why I have it here."
Lucian made no comment. He looked hard at the picture. It evidently
made more impression on him than anything that Sylvester could say. At
last he took up the two photographs together.
"Thank you for bringing it to me," he said, and put it in his
breast-pocket. Sylvester barely checked himself in his impulse to seize
it, and his annoyance at Lucian's calm conviction that it must be meant
for him, gave some sharpness to his tone, as he said--
"How do you propose to act, and to get to see her?"