Reparation.
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.”