A very few words are enough to tell Amethyst’s story. She and Lucian Leigh fell in love with each other; suddenly, rapturously, without delay or misgiving, almost at the first sight of each other’s fair faces, almost with the first sense of an answering stir in each other’s souls, Lucian courted her in a quiet but most unmistakable fashion; and soon, life for Amethyst meant his presence, his words and looks. She was carried off her feet, caught out of herself. Even as she knew “what made the assembly shine” for her, she was well assured that she “made the ball fine” for him. She did not remain unconscious or ignorant of what had befallen her. Love did not come to her with slow, cautious, and imperceptible footsteps, he caught her in a sweet frenzy, which left no space for misgivings; while her quickly answering warmth probably hastened and intensified the passion, which might have seemed alien to Lucian’s slower and shyer nature.
A few social meetings and games of tennis together—one or two encounters “by chance,” which yet were so important that it seemed as if the whole course of life must have been arranged to bring them about—a sunny Sunday or two, in the same church, singing the same hymns—a belief in each other’s goodness, so that no misgivings troubled their joy in each other’s charms, scraps of talk—wonderful glances—the county ball, where Amethyst’s success woke Lucian to the sudden fear of rivalry, and where the world began to say that she was a great beauty—a dance the next night at a neighbour’s house—a long, long waltz together, then, dim lights, heavy-scented flowers, a wonderful sense of being alone, after the crowd of dancers; then feelings found words, words hardly needed, his arms were round her, his kiss on her lips, and, after scarcely a doubt or a fear, in three short weeks, in a dozen meetings, Amethyst’s heart was won, her promise given, and all her story, as she believed, told.
But, with the actual promise given, with the spoken words, Lucian, at any rate, woke up to a sense of real life, and of what it behoved him to do.
“To-morrow I must come to Lord Haredale. I hope he won’t kick me down-stairs.”
“Why should he be angry? We are not doing wrong.—That is—ought I to have told mother first?—Was it too quick?” faltered Amethyst, crimson and trembling with sudden misgiving.
“Too quick! It has seemed a life-time since last night, before I could speak to you! I am my own master. But you, who might have all London at your feet, they will say I ought to have let you have a season in town first.”
“But that wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“No? I don’t suppose it would. Nothing could make any difference to me. We’ll go and live at Toppings. You like the country. I meant to see if I could not go to Norway, and get some seal fishing; but I shan’t care for that now, we’ll settle down at once.”
But this was going too fast for Amethyst.
“Oh don’t,” she said, “don’t; I—I cannot think.—It is too much.—I want to stop—to wait—not to have any more now!”