“Nothing would ever induce me to do such a thing,” said Amethyst scornfully.
“You have only to choose what you will do. They’ll all come after you for the sake of saying afterwards they’ve been in with you. But—I shall never be a good girl, Amethyst. I can’t keep out of the fray. I want them to talk to me, and I know how to make them. Then one gets led on. No, I don’t bear-fight and romp; but oh, Amethyst, I talk—I say such horrid things—just things that make people stare and wonder if I can mean it. Oh, how I hate men!” stamping her foot. “They delight in making girls sail near the wind, and then, how they talk of us! That’s what Tony used to make me do when I was little. How he used to laugh! And the books,” went on Una, after a pause. “When do we ever see one, French or English, that you’d like Sylvester Riddell, or any nice man, to see you read? Oh, if men in general liked girls to be decent, how easy goodness would be!”
“Well,” said Amethyst, “if we are to be good, it certainly won’t be because we don’t hear of wickedness, either in books or in real life. But I wouldn’t say what I was ashamed of, to please any one. And I’m sure, darling, you hardly ever do.”
“You’re a sweet comforter,” said Una, kissing her. “My dear old mother-confessor! But really I sometimes hear things that make me think that my lady brought us up in a pattern way. Well, I believe Mr and Mrs Jackson are pattern people, so let us hope the hunt-breakfast will be highly proper too. Half an hour before lunch. I’ll do some sewing.”
“You are a pattern girl about your East End work, at any rate.”
“Oh, but, Amethyst, I like to hear from Miss Waterhouse about the girls. I do feel as if I exactly understood how hard it is for them to be good, when they want so to be bad, you see, and know just how; and how getting fond of her is such a help to them. And she tells them that I care when she gives them the things I make. If I only worked better!”
This was the fourth of a set of visits which Amethyst and Una had paid, sometimes alone, and sometimes with their mother. One of these visits had been to the Fowlers at the country house which was part of Mrs Fowlers fortune, and, little as the girls had wished to go there, they had found Mrs Fowler far the kindest friend they met in their wandering life. She was very good to the lonely girls, though they never knew in what light Major Fowler had represented their story to her; and Una was loyal and brave, and resisted even the temptation of not being tempted by notice from her host But the visit was a great strain on her, she felt the force of the temptations in her path, and did not know what upward growth was indicated by her knowing them to be temptations. She was too young and too impressionable not to be influenced by the atmosphere around her; outward helps were very few, and the struggle was hard within her. Still there were moments of peace, times which taught her what a holy life might be, times which upheld and uplifted her, the poor sinful girl who was trying to be a saint.
Amethyst’s troubles were of a different sort. She had left Cleverley with several growing purposes and intentions, and with a strong desire, an earnest wish to win that nobleness of character of which Mr Riddell had spoken, a wish that had always been as salt within her, but which Sylvester had touched with fire. She threw all the weight of her beauty on the side of maidenly conduct and modest speech, and there was neither man nor woman in the free-and-easy, careless-tongued set among whom she moved, who would take a liberty with Amethyst Haredale. But she was bored to death. There was nothing to do, nothing to know, nothing to feel. She was like a wild, strong creature in a cage. She worked at her Latin and mathematics in the early morning, she played tennis with vigorous interest in the game, and none in her partners, she took long walks by herself, but everything was dull, stale, flat, and unprofitable. The rebellion in her soul grew more and more violent. There were hours when she came to wish that she had resisted Sylvester and married Sir Richard. Anything would have been better than the life she had to lead now.
She heard occasionally from Miss Riddell, and had so been told of the terrible accident to Lucian Leigh, and of his almost fatal illness, but the same letter contained also better news, and since then she had heard that he was slowly recovering. She had been shocked and startled, but it was difficult to realise Lucian as otherwise than well and strong, and no details had been given to her.
Her natural good spirits often got the upper hand of her burden of discontent, and when all the house-party started for the meet at Mr Jackson’s place, Beechgrove, in a bright sparkling morning under brown trees and blue sky, amid golden and tawny ferns and ruddy hedgerows, she enjoyed herself as if she had never known a care. The red coats, the dogs, and the horses, the noise and the bustle of a hunting morning were delightful to her, and she had never looked more blooming and full of life than when she went into the house at Beechgrove to breakfast, followed by Una. Mrs Jackson received the two handsome young strangers pleasantly, and called to her son to come and wait on them and take care of them.