On the morning after Miss Grattan's great ball Miss Annabel Haredale sat
alone, in the pretty sitting-room assigned to herself and Miss
Carisbrooke. She was very unhappy, almost more unhappy than when, more
than two years ago, she had made up her mind to give Amethyst back to
her parents--and she was not now so entirely clear in conscience. She
had, when something like necessity impelled her, fallen back into a way
of looking at things, which she had long cast aside. For many years in
her quiet untempted life, she had been in the habit of thinking whether
things were right, and now she had returned to early customs of thinking
whether they were expedient. As she sat reflecting on the scenes of the
night before, there was a tap at the door, and Amethyst came in. Miss
Haredale thought that she had come to announce her engagement, and, with
a freak of memory, her thoughts flew back to the morning when the girl
had rushed in upon her, full of delight to tell her that she had passed
an examination!
If Amethyst had good news to tell now, she did not seem much exhilarated
by it.
"Aunt Anna," she said, "there are one or two things I want to ask you
about, and I hope you will tell me nothing but the truth about them."
"Of course, my dear. I am sure you know that I shall."
"I think you will," said Amethyst, "though I don't see how any one can
do them, and yet tell the truth about them. Do you mean to let Carrie
marry Charles? You have intended it, I know."
"Why, Amethyst," said Miss Haredale, "there's no one but Charles to keep
up the family name. He must marry a girl with money, and, though Carrie
wants style, he might do worse. And he is making great efforts to
reform--of course last night was a sad slip. But I do think he is
really anxious to settle. Imagine what it would be, if he couldn't show
when he comes to the title."
"I want to know how he has been enabled to show now," said Amethyst,
with icy coldness. And then, after a pause--"Did Sir Richard Grattan
lend him the money?"
"Well, yes--he did, my dear. He did a great deal for him. The money
was nothing to him, you know, and your father was really gratified."
"And what else has he done for us?" pursued Amethyst.
"Well--he bought the farms near Haredale. Of course, Amethyst, even
with the help of Carrie's guardians, your father couldn't have taken
this house, unless he had found a good purchaser. Sir Richard did it in
the most delicate way--"
"But if Sir Richard wanted to marry me, I should have thought giving me
a season in town did not improve his chances."
"Why, Amethyst--anyhow you would have gone out with Lady Molyneux. And
now, he has had every opportunity. And he improves so _much_ on
acquaintance. When you make him happy, he will never think of the
trifling obligation. Of course, I suppose the matter is now settled;
but he was very anxious that you should feel perfectly free."
"And all this has been done for the honour of the family. I've heard my
lady say, that if people had a shady sort of record, it was much better
to own it and take the consequences. I think I agree with her. One
other thing. Did Mr Carisbrooke make this arrangement about Carrie and
Charles?"
"Well, no--but he expressed a great desire that she should join your
party. And I don't know why you speak like this, Amethyst, I never knew
you take such a tone before."
"I never heard you take such a tone in Silverfold, Aunt Annabel."
"Ah, my dear child, Silverfold days were very happy ones. But you are
young, and you can't realise what family ruin is. You often think
things bad for the girls, but they might be far worse. Last spring it
was very nearly a case of going to live on the continent--cheap. Now
just think of that with you four girls. What would there be for either
of your parents but the gaming table, my dear child? And nothing left
of mine for you to fall back upon. And the Haredales are not
long-lived; if your father died, what _would_ become of you all? Now,
when you are well married--Amethyst, of course there's a great deal I
don't like, but I really do think that there's nothing, not absolutely
criminal, that it's not a woman's duty to do to save her family from
such a dreadful fate. Oh, my dear, you can't remember your uncles Percy
and Tom, but never shall I forget the details that came out at their
deaths, nor seeing poor Percy once abroad. My dear, when one is young
and hard, one may think it serves one's brother right, but one's
nephew--oh no, my dear. And Charles would be kind to a woman who liked
him."
"And it was for the good of the family that my half-sister was made to
marry a man she hated? I don't think it answered in that case."
"Poor Blanche had no force of character. She was not like any of you.
Besides, my dear child, I am sure you do like Sir Richard. I do think
your remarkable attractions are quite providential."
"Don't you think you had better have let me be a Saint Etheldred's
teacher?" said Amethyst, clasping her hands behind her head, and looking
full at her aunt. Amethyst scarcely ever give the rein to her tongue,
and poor Miss Haredale hardly knew what to make of it.
"No, my dear," she said, puzzled, "I can't think that."
Amethyst looked at her with a smile like Tory's. Then she laughed a
little, and said--
"Never mind, Auntie; you see, after all, it's you that I feel at home
with, and so I behave ill. It's such a comfort. I only wanted to know
just how the land lay." And with a kind kiss, she went away, none the
happier for her knowledge.
She had not known before how near the other side of the line was, how
little lay between her family and an amount of "difficulty" that would
make their position untenable. Perhaps she was young and hard; but it
was hardly likely she could care for Charles himself, and she distrusted
him so entirely that she did not believe that the family name would ever
get safe out of his hands.
As she came into the drawing-room, to her intense surprise, there the
culprit sat. He never seemed at home nor in place among all the
knick-knacks and pretty things, and now he looked sick, shy, and
miserable. Charles had none of the nonchalance of his half-sisters,
and, truth to tell, he was afraid of them.
"Look here, Amethyst," he said, awkwardly. "It was deuced unlucky last
night, I know. Do tell Grattan I apologise, and all that's proper. Bad
wine at the club, that was all--brandied sherry. Say the kind thing,
there's a good girl."
"I did not see what passed, and I shall say nothing about it," said
Amethyst, coldly.
"You see--I don't want Grattan to cut up rough, and though, of course,
he's put his hand in his pocket--I've helped him to the connection.
He's not a bad sort, but of course he ain't a man of family. Put him up
to the idea, that the correct thing is to take no notice of anything of
that sort."
"I dare say Sir Richard Grattan can judge of what's correct," said
Amethyst.
"Then too," said Charles, shifting a little in his chair, "there's
another thing.--I'd tackle Grattan; but girls hang by each other. You
might prevent little Carrie from thinking me a reprobate."
"How?" said Amethyst.
"Well--tell her it's nothing uncommon. Might happen to any gentleman.
`As drunk as a lord' is a proverb, you know. I shan't make a bad
husband--assure you I shan't."
Amethyst stood by the table, perfectly silent. She felt that, if she
spoke, her tongue would sting worse than ever Tory's could.
"But of course," said Charles, more freely, and getting a little angry,
"if you tell her that when a fellow's once down he's always down, she'll
give me the sack. And that's what all you women do think, specially the
religious ones. You think yourselves so much better than other people!"
"No, Charles, we don't," said another voice; and Una, who had come into
the room while he was speaking, came forward, and stood near him, her
slight swaying figure leaning against the table, and her large
melancholy eyes fixed on his face. "Indeed we don't think that. We
know--religion--will help every one."
"Hallo!" said Charles, "little Una talking goody! What? Do you think I
shall turn pious?"
"I think," said Una, "that God will help you just as much as He helps
me. And, indeed, we don't despise you."
"Oh, Una!" said Charles, in an odd, simple voice, "He'll punish me.
Why, I never said my prayers since I went to school. But I should go to
church, if my wife wanted me to, and I'd rather she was strict. You can
tell little Carrie so, Una. And look here--a man don't mean anything,
you know, if a word slips out ladies aren't accustomed to, specially
after dinner. Tell her so--there's a good girl. You mean to say a kind
thing."
What Una might have answered was interrupted by the entrance of Lord
Haredale, who called his son away, rather curtly, and Amethyst broke
out--
"Una! How can you. How can any one like _that_ repent? Why, I don't
believe that he has left himself all his senses!"
"I am so sorry for him," said Una.
"I cannot be, when I think of his wanting a good girl to marry him!"
"But, Amethyst, he might be changed. You believe that?"
"Well, yes--in a way, of course, I believe it. But people after all are
what they have made themselves. He can't repent, so as to be much good,
in this world, at any rate."
Amethyst spoke harshly and recklessly. There was something in Charles's
half-ruffianly, half-foolish manner, that revolted her past any sense of
pity for him, and she was in no mood for toleration. She had no great
inward impulse to set against the force of circumstances, and to be
driven by necessity is a very different thing from being urged forward
by a force within.
There was nothing for it but to marry Sir Richard Grattan, she had
scarcely a choice left. She believed that she should always be mistress
enough of herself to play her part with success; and interests, such as
her friendship with Mr Carisbrooke, who happily did not want to marry
her, might keep her spirit alive. Yes, she was acting rightly, and yet
she felt it utterly impossible to ask for the help of which Una had
spoken.
Still in this humour on the next morning, while she had so far managed
to avoid the actual, final "Yes" to Sir Richard's suit, she heard
Sylvester's announcement and request, which she answered with a certain
sense of defiance both of herself and of him.
But, when he was gone, she knew that she was shaken almost to pieces by
her interview with him, and she could hardly string herself up to go, as
arranged, with her aunt and Carrie, to a fashionably patronised
_matinee_ in which a _debutante_, in whose performance Mr Carisbrooke
was interested, was to play _Juliet_.
Amethyst was too high-strung a creature not to be susceptible to
dramatic excitement; she was no critic of acting, and was not perhaps so
familiar with the play, that it did not come upon her with some
freshness. Its influence seized her like a sort of madness, possessing
and changing her. Whether the spirit breathed airs from heaven or
blasts from hell, it was absolute. Given a Romeo, Juliet's was the only
course--the charnel-house rather than the County. This was a force to
which her own nature answered, which Mr Carisbrooke had already done
something to awaken. Here was a great and mighty impulse, which would
make life worth living, or death worth dying. She did not cry, or melt
with pity over the woes of Juliet, she felt the force of such passion in
herself, she saw the power of such self-devotion. Her real self seemed
to flash into life, as she recalled her own brief love-story, her own
young love. And to-night she was to see her old lover again. Not only
prudence, expediency, worldly wisdom, would go down before the flood,
but right and wrong, if there was any right but allowing such a force of
nature to have its way.
She went home, and put on her simplest white dress, and clasped the
amethysts round her neck, and put the purple stars in her hair, just as
she had worn them at Cleverley more than two years ago.
When she went in to Una, who was glad enough to make her health an
excuse for not meeting the two young men, the girl looked at her half
frightened.
"Amethyst," she said, "you never looked so lovely in your life."
So thought Sylvester Riddell, as he came into the drawing-room among the
other guests of the evening, with Lucian Leigh by his side. He was pale
and nervous, and felt intensely the awkwardness of the situation as they
walked up to Lady Haredale. Lucian's extreme straightforwardness saved
him from the difficulty.
"Lady Haredale," he said very low, "I have to beg your pardon."
"What for, Mr Leigh? Oh, I haven't at all a good memory, but all our
Cleverley friends are welcome, as I told my daughter when she happened
to mention that you were coming. Mrs Leigh is not in town?"
She smiled with cheerful sweetness, but Lucian felt as if she had dashed
a cup of cold water in his face.
He looked handsome and striking, with his tall slight figure, and his
delicate, regular face bronzed with travel, and marked by an intense
gravity of expression.
"Oh, my stars," whispered Tory to Kattern, "he's a deal more
thorough-bred than Sir Richard!" While Miss Haredale sighed over the
wild insanity that had allowed him to appear at this juncture.
Amethyst was standing under a chandelier; she had the faculty of being
able to stand perfectly still. Several people were round her, among
them Sir Richard, and Oliver Carisbrooke. A lady congratulated Sir
Richard on his delightful ball.
"It was not a success for me," he said carelessly, "but _my_ sister is
thinking of a big water-party, if this fine weather continues. That, I
hope, will go off better."
Lucian began to cross the room.
"Where shall you go?" said the lady.
Lucian was close at hand.
"No," said Oliver Carisbrooke, in a low full voice, which only Amethyst
heard. "No, it will not be."
Lucian bowed, and Amethyst held out her hand to him.
"Thank you for allowing me to come," he said. He did not try to look
unconscious. He meant every one to see that he came with an object.
Sylvester, at once admiring and suffering, owned that he could not have
done it half so well.
"You have come back suddenly to England," said Amethyst.
"Yes, my friend had an accident."
"That was very unfortunate for you?"
"No, I don't think so."
"But weren't you going to the Rocky Mountains? Haven't you brought back
any bears?" said Amethyst.
She was of course obliged to say something, and her manner grew easier
as the light slowly faded out of her face.
Here Mr Carisbrooke claimed Lucian's acquaintance, and a few courtesies
passed. Sylvester wondered what next. Even Lucian could hardly go down
on his knees under the chandelier. He spoke a few needful words, but
Sylvester, rather to his surprise, saw that he had turned conspicuously
pale. He barely waited till the bystanders were not absolutely looking
and listening, then said abruptly--
"May I speak to you?"
She hesitated a moment, and then skilfully moved a little away into the
window, with a few light words about the lovely night which gave him a
chance to follow, while Sylvester dashed at Sir Richard, and told him
that he considered the leader of his political party a drag on the
wheels of progress, and likely at the same time to plunge the country
into anarchy.
Lucian and Amethyst stood in the open window. The trees in the square
were motionless as pictures in the utter stillness of a London summer
night, the flowers on the balcony were colourless in a flood of
moonlight. There was a great silence, in which the roar of the traffic
was but as the roar of the sea.
"Amethyst," said Lucian, "can you forgive me? I was wrong."
"Oh yes," said Amethyst, "I have long known that you could not help it."
"Of course," he said, "I have always loved you exactly the same.
Nothing could change that, I want you to understand at once that I am
just the same. Will you go back?"
"But I am not at all the same," said Amethyst. "I can't say that I have
learned nothing, and forgotten nothing."
"Have you forgotten that time?"
"No," said Amethyst, with passion in her voice.
"Then you can't have forgotten me? Are you too angry?"
"No, no."
"Two years wouldn't seem like two minutes, if we come together."
"Two minutes--two ages! Lucian, I might say fifty things and put you
off, and leave it doubtful. But I'll only say one, and I surely know
it. I don't love you now."
"You love some other man?"
"No, I don't, but,"--with a sudden outburst, "you killed my love for
you, dead, and it won't come to life again. It's no good--no good--for
I shall never have it again--never!"
"I--surely you cannot tell. I will wait--let me come again. I had to
let you know I was yours--but on your side--when I knew you had been
true to me, and that I wronged you--that you really loved me, I never
thought it possible your love could change."
"Well, I have changed," said Amethyst. "It is all gone by, I can't go
back. I had to turn into a different person, and I can't put back the
clock. I shouldn't fall in love with you, if I met you now. But I wish
I had died when I did love you."
She darted back into the shelter of the lights and the crowd, and soon
she saw Lucian and his friend bow to her mother and go. Sir Richard
Grattan came up to her to say good-night.
"May I come to-morrow?" he said, with meaning.
Amethyst looked full at him, as if she were then and there appraising
him, and making up her mind. Then, very slowly and distinctly, she
said--
"_Yes_."
No! Lucian was not her Romeo, and she was not to find her deliverance
in the flood-tide of passion. A girl with weaker brain, or of less
concentrated feeling, might have doubted and wondered, and tried to
conjure up the old magic, but Amethyst was too clever and too intense
for self-deception.
Lucian was nothing to her but a handsome boy, and the love of her
girlhood was gone for ever. She had left it behind her.