Maidenly instinct, all the upright impulses of a good and truthful girl, revolted against the situation. Still, it was “mother,” and perhaps things might in this one instance be different from what they seemed.
She meant to behave as usual in the morning, but the radiant happiness that had of late been usual with her, could not be assumed at will.
She went out into the garden after breakfast to gather roses, and as she walked along the path under the cypress hedge, stopping here and there to pick and to admire, a step in the wood made her start and look up. It was not Lucian, but his mother.
She crossed the stile with the slow, but secure movements of a country lady, no longer slim and active, but to whom stiles have never ceased to be familiar, and approached Amethyst, who ran to meet her with a pretty look of welcome.
Mrs Leigh was a good woman. Deeply as she resented what she believed to be her son’s betrayal, to save the reputation, and, if possible, touch the conscience of this eighteen-year-old girl, to give her every chance of explaining herself, was her firm intention. She had come herself and alone to face a most painful interview, before saying one word to Lucian on the subject.
“Oh, Mrs Leigh,” said Amethyst, “you have just come in time to have some roses!”
“I think you must know why I have come, Amethyst,” said Mrs Leigh, who was too sincere a person, and in too nervous a mood, to fence.
There was guilt in a moment on Amethyst’s face, and guilt, though not her own, in her heart; for her thoughts flew to her mother’s secret, innocent as she felt herself to be.
“No,” she said, “but I am glad to see you.”
She tried to keep her secret, and when Amethyst was in any way playing a part, she played it with her mother’s soft tones and languid grace.