Mrs Leigh obeyed her son's wish, and made the _amende_ with all the
gracious tact that could possibly be shown in dealing with so difficult
a situation. It suited Lady Haredale much better to ignore the past
than to keep up any kind of coldness. The Jacksons were a connecting
link, with their eager seeking of Amethyst and Una; Lucian's two young
sisters were glad to resume friendly relations with Kattern and Tory,
who had but newly joined their mother, with Miss Haredale and Carrie
Carisbrooke.
It was a fortunate moment. Lord Haredale was away at Monte Carlo, and
his wife, who, with what Una called "my lady's dreadful capacity for
enjoying herself," had found friends of every sort on their travels,
lost in some marvellous way the nameless look, shabby, "shady" (only
some slang word could quite describe it), which had just a little
tarnished her graceful ladyhood, when there were only shabby, shady
people with whom to associate, and fitted at once into her old circle.
Other residents and visitors called upon her, so that a time of
cheerfulness and gaiety set in for all the young people, who met every
day, and made expeditions together, which often began and ended in Mrs
Leigh's garden at Casa Remi. Amethyst came with the rest. If she had
been deaf to Sylvester's appeal, she could hardly have resisted the
half-acknowledged misery in Mrs Leigh's face. She was kind and gentle
to Lucian, and her manner never betrayed under-currents of feeling; but
the dreary months of dissatisfaction with herself and with her lot in
life had stolen away her bloom, and she looked unhappy and weary.
Lucian could not talk to her much. As he had said, he lay and looked at
her; but how life and death seemed to him, when she was in his sight, it
was hard to tell. Sylvester sometimes feared that the pleasure, which
he had so much desired, had been dearly bought. Surely that restraint
must be hard for Lucian, which was so great a strain upon himself, but
the wonder how it was with her, the fear that all was not well with her,
the pity for the dying lover, and the passion that beat in his own
heart, were almost more than he could bear.
"Syl," said Lucian one day, after one of these gatherings, about three
weeks after Amethyst's first visit, "Syl, Amethyst isn't happy."
"No," said Sylvester, a little startled, "I fear not; her life has many
hardships."
"I want to speak to her alone," said Lucian, "our parting has always
stung her. It's bad for her to look back on; I think I can make it
better. You'll manage it, won't you?"
"If it's not too much for you, I will try."
"I've got it to do," said Lucian. "Get her to come by herself; I know
what I want to say."
"Well," said Sylvester, "I'll try--when you are feeling strong enough."
"To-morrow then." He paused a moment and looked at Sylvester, and then
said distinctly--"She is not the least bit in love with _me_ now, you
know, Syl."
"Oh, my dear boy," said Sylvester, hurriedly, "all this is very bad for
you. Even for her sake, I can't bear to have you distress yourself. It
is so hard for you."
"Why, Syl, I don't feel enough like living, to mind as much as you
suppose. Of course sometimes,"--he paused again, then smiled a
little--"I know better than she does now, about a good many things.--Oh,
I'm bad to-day! Lift me, Syl. A change makes it easier."
Sylvester did what he could to mitigate the attack of pain which
followed, glad that Lucian did not try to hide it from him, as he too
often did from his mother.
He did not see how to manage the interview without Mrs Leigh's
co-operation, and decided to tell her of Lucian's wish. She gave him a
look which went to his heart; for in it was the acknowledgment of all
which she could not bring her tongue to utter.
"I leave it to you," she said, "he must have his own way now."
Sylvester went straight to Amethyst and asked her to come at a given
time, and to let Lucian say to her whatever he would. She looked at him
for a moment, and he could see that she shrank from such a meeting, but
she only said--
"I will come."
"Thank you," said Sylvester; "he has set his heart on it."
She looked, as she stood silent, as if with another word her
self-control would break down into passionate grief, but the moment
passed, and she recovered her usual manner, as she repeated her promise
to come to-morrow morning. Her troubled look dwelt in Sylvester's mind.
Had the old love woke again in tender pity, and were they breaking her
heart once more with this recall of the past? But this time Sylvester
did not understand her, and tormented himself in vain.
She came on the next day, punctual to the moment, very grave and quiet,
and perfectly calm.
Lucian had been resting all the morning, and now lay on his couch under
the verandah, while Mrs Leigh greeted Amethyst, and set a chair for her
close by, within easy reach of his eyes and voice, then with hardly a
word she left them.
"Amethyst," said Lucian, "you know I'm going to die, and you, I suppose,
will have a long life. I want to take the pain out of your thoughts of
me, so that when you think of those days when we were engaged to each
other, it may be pleasant to you, as if we'd had a good time when we
were children."
Amethyst looked at him, but she could not speak.
"I never ought to have lost patience with a girl like you, and I ought
to have known you better. But I was too young and stupid, it was a
dreadful thing to me when I knew I had wronged you--had been so wrong--
and couldn't make up for it. And when I saw you again, I knew I had
never thought enough of you, though I loved you so much."
"Oh, Lucian--no--"
"If we'd married, I suppose I should have learned in time. But I should
have made mistakes and vexed you, I wasn't fit to guide you. I should
always have thought I knew best Well, then, you see it has all been for
the best, and I want to tell you, that if I hadn't had the loving, and
the getting to understand you, and the trying to get on without you, it
would have been much worse for me now. And so, as that poor little old
time has helped me to die better, it seemed to me that perhaps the
thought of it might make your life better for you--at least to know what
you have done for me."
"Oh, Lucian, that's not quite it. Why was I such a wicked girl as to
forget you? It wasn't because I was angry. If I had been faithful
too--you might--we might--"
"No, dear," said Lucian. "That's what I want to show you. You
couldn't--you wanted more than I had got to give you. That's what I
found out. You'll have it some day, and then you won't feel I did you
nothing but harm."
"Oh," said Amethyst, with streaming tears, "I shall always--I shall
always feel--_glorified_ by your having loved me--_so_."
He got hold of her hand, and held it gently in both his own, and when
she was a little calmer, he said--
"Tell me about your troubles."
"They're not worth it," she said, "hard, sordid money troubles--things
that are hateful. And the wrong things I do--and feel--and think."
"I think there'll be better times for you," said Lucian; then he smiled,
and said, "As there will be soon for me."
"If--if you could but get better--"
Lucian gave her the strangest look.
"Oh, no," he said, quietly, and then, with a little more of his usual
manner--
"I'm sorry to have made you cry. But I think you'll like by and by to
know I quite understood. Now there's just one thing more."
He took hold of a gold locket that hung from his watch chain, and opened
it slowly, then took out of it the broad gipsy ring, set with a big
amethyst and two diamonds--the very ring that his boyish taste had
thought both handsome and symbolical enough to give his betrothed.
"Let me give it you back," he said. "Perhaps you won't like to wear it
now; but, when you put another ring on your finger, let this be a guard
to it. That's my fancy."
"Oh, Lucian! Put it on--I never--never shall--"
"I think you will," he said. "I _hope_ you will." He took her warm
young hand, and, with his weak fingers, put on the ring, and back upon
them both came the joyous moment when he had first put it on, and "all
the world was young."
"And then," continued Lucian, "when Mr Riddell is here, and gives me my
last Communion, will you come too? I remember the Sunday we were
engaged--"
"Oh," said Amethyst, "all the love went away together. But now, I
will--I will--"
"There is Syl, across the garden," said Lucian, after a moment--"He
thinks--I shall be tired. He takes such care of me, he is so good to
me--now he must come and take you home. Good-bye, my dear love. God
bless you! I am quite happy now."
He looked up at her, and with a sudden impulse she stooped down and
kissed him, and then turning her head away, and waving Sylvester back,
she fled across the garden and out of sight.
Lucian had covered his face with his hands, it was flushed and burning,
as all that was left of life in him surged up and rebelled against the
approaching hand of death.
"In much pain, dear boy?" said Sylvester anxiously, after a minute.
"More--more than I knew," said Lucian, with panting breath, then, with a
look which Sylvester never forgot, he whispered--"But it's quite
right,--Syl."
By and by, when he was able to leave Lucian, Sylvester went out on to
the hill-side under silvery olive woods, and over broken ground covered
with rosemary and thyme. The sun was bright, and the sea pure, clear
blue beneath it. He thought that he had come to seek solitude and
silence; but, when he saw Amethyst coming towards him, he knew that he
had been really in search of her.
She came up to him, and stood by his side, and they looked into each
other's faces.
"It did not hurt him?" she said presently in a trembling voice.
"Oh, no, he will be more at rest now."
"Oh," said Amethyst, with a fresh burst of tears, "oh--I am so sorry--so
sorry for him! Oh--I think I'd die, if he could get well and be happy."
They were passionate words; but her tone and look lifted the dread from
Sylvester's heart. It was for Lucian, not for herself, that she was
weeping.
"One cannot dare to wish, for such as he," he said.
"But I was so cruel to him, when he came back, in London. I hurt him
more than I need. Oh, I have been a wicked girl, always trying to get
something for myself, to make up for having been ill-treated! I
despised every one. I despised him. Oh, I've had a lump of ice instead
of a heart, I hate myself for it!"
"But now the ice has melted?"
"Yes," said Amethyst, with childish directness, "I am sorry now."
They walked on slowly, side by side. Words were difficult; but a great
peace came over them both.
"Do you think," said Amethyst, presently, "is he worse? It will not be
very soon, will it?"
"I don't know," said Sylvester. "He is much weaker than he was. I am
glad my father is coming next week. Poor Lucy was meant for living!
But he does suffer frightfully, night and day. I shall not leave him--I
have arranged for that--and I couldn't possibly go away now."
"He likes to have you."
"Yes, the dear boy! He always has clung to me, though, heaven knows, I
often manage badly enough for him. But whatever he likes--There's one
thing I must tell you. You know I tried to hold him up when he fell.
My strength was going--in another minute he must have pulled me over.
And he knew it--and let my hand go!"
Sylvester could hardly speak of that most awful moment, and Amethyst
grew paler with sympathy. "Oh--that was splendid of him!" she said.
Then her heart gave a great throb and bound, and she knew which life was
the dearest to her. The blood rushed back to her temples, she could see
nothing, but she felt that Sylvester held her hand close in his own, and
presently she heard his voice whispering--
"You know what makes my life worth living?" She turned, and at once
giving him her hands, and putting him away from her, she said--
"Oh, we will do everything for him, we will not think of anything but
him--while he wants us."
She fled away as she spoke; but her words seemed to Sylvester the most
beautiful answer that she could have given him, the perfect expression
of their according hearts.
In his pocket-book was still preserved the young primrose springing from
dead leaves, with which, long ago, Amethyst had illustrated her saying
that "beginnings come out of endings."
It was no inapt type of the sweet hopes springing up in these days of
mourning--hopes all the sweeter for the generous reverence with which
they waited for fulfilment.