“You know, darling,” she had said in her sweet voice, “he is devoted to me, poor fellow; and it does give an interest in life to feel one’s self so necessary. It’s quite a woman’s vocation.”
“It’s the same thing,” cried Amethyst to herself, starting up in bed. “I want an interest in life! I am like her!” and she shuddered from head to foot. Poor child, who feared to be like her mother!
Her clear brain came to her aid once more. It was no true love with which Oliver Carisbrooke inspired her. She wanted an interest in life, and it was in her nature to find it as her mother—and her sister—had done before her. She was clever enough to know it, noble enough to despise herself for it; but she was Lady Haredale’s daughter, and she felt it. Would she have strength to resist it?
“Well,” she thought, “I had better die than do it.”
When Una came in the next morning, full of misgivings, Amethyst was up and dressed, and held a note in her hand. The window was flung open, and the fresh cold air was blowing in. She was pale, as if she had cried all night. She showed Una the note.
“No—never.
“Amethyst Haredale.”
“Now, give that to the servant for him,” she said, “and never, never speak to me about it again. I fight awfully hard. Some day I shall be beaten.”
Amethyst had no rejoicing sense of freedom in escaping from this second snare. The straight path was cold and dull, and there were pitfalls on either side. To avoid being like Lady Haredale was not quite what Mr Riddell had meant by a “great inspiration.” She did not feel in the least the better for the victory she had won.
She sat down and put up her hands over her tired eyes, on which Oliver Carisbrooke’s passionate face had seemed to print itself. She was too tired to think; but his words echoed in her ears—
“The young poet’s was only a dream-love, not substantial enough for you.”