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.”