“Oh, she will,” said Miss Haredale. “If only she can so feel it!”
“Well,” said Lord Haredale, “her mother’s clever enough; perhaps she’ll bring her round.” His wrath had evaporated in its own violence, and he began to think how he could pass the morning least intolerably, since the haunts of his fellows were not likely to be made pleasant to him for the present. Miss Haredale was full of remorse and misery, but Sir Richard Grattan’s offer represented to her the last straw to hold by, and she had not courage enough to back up Amethyst’s resistance to it.
Amethyst meanwhile got up-stairs, and locked herself into her own room. Then she dropped down on the floor, not fainting, but in a sudden collapse of all her powers. The sudden news, on the day before, of Lucian’s return, the intense excitement at the theatre, the expectation of Lucian’s coming, the change of feeling when she saw him, the night of struggle with herself, the family disgrace, the high exaltation of Sylvester’s appeal, the strain of resolution in her encounter with Sir Richard, the shame of what her mother had said to her, and still more, of what she had answered, the shock and terror of her father’s unseemly violence, had worn out all her strength.
She lay perfectly still, without conscious thought or feeling, till gradually her strong nerves began to recover themselves, and a flicker of light came into her heart. She had broken free.
For many weeks she had been holding herself in, keeping herself in a prison of necessity, expediency, and pleasure, refusing to think long-stretching thoughts, to feel high-reaching feelings, to pray genuine prayers. She had been afraid to break through the soft, tempting satisfactions of the world’s good things, afraid to shake the foundations of the philosophy by which she justified her choice to herself.
Now she was free, out in the rain and the storm, with the wide world around her, and the wide sky above her head—free to be lonely, dissatisfied, miserable, to long and to dread, to love and to hate, to be all of herself once more.
“The snare is broken, and I am delivered!” she said; and great vigorous throbs of painful life came back to her soul.
Una’s voice broke in upon her.
“Amethyst, darling—won’t you let me in? Dearest, do open the door.”
Amethyst rose, still trembling and unsteady, and unlocked the door, then dropped back into a low chair, as Una ran in, and started at the sight of her face.