“Make up a story! But what can I tell them?” exclaimed Amethyst with incautious vehemence.
“The truth!”—and Lucian, who had sprung over the stile and flashed along the path, in a moment had seized her hands; his clear unfaltering eyes were looking into hers, his young strong voice, troubled, angered, and yet loving, sounded in her ears.
“What does my mother mean, Amethyst? what is all this?”
“I did not—oh, I did not!” gasped Amethyst, like a falsely accused child. “Oh, Lucian, don’t you believe what I say?”
“Yes, yes, of course I believe it. But what do you say? What can my mother possibly be thinking of?” cried Lucian, still hasty and unrealising.
“Really, Lucian,” said Lady Haredale, “I cannot tell; Mrs Leigh is under some extraordinary mistake. Amethyst has nothing to tell you, and I really hardly know if I can allow the subject to be dropped here. I believe that Amethyst took a turn with Major Fowler—dear old Tony—who has been like an uncle among the children, and Mrs Leigh has made some extraordinary mistake.”
“What is it, Amethyst? You tell me what it is,” said Lucian, who hated Lady Haredale, and never believed a word that fell from her lips.
But his hastiness, which looked like anger and suspicion, though it was in truth passionate trouble, almost took from her breath and speech. Her face whitened, her figure swayed.
“I—I only took a turn with him,” she stammered, with her eyes on her mother, “a turn in the turfed walk.”
“But afterwards—” said Lucian. “No, I’ll not ask you in any one’s presence. Come with me, and tell me the meaning of it all.”