As Lady Haredale walked away, uttering the last words with a charming air of motherly dignity, Lucian turned round and gazed into Amethyst’s face.
“What did my mother see?” he said, “what makes her think this? She always speaks the truth.”
“She did not see me,” said Amethyst, “with Major Fowler in the ante-room.”
“Then is what Lady Haredale says true?” Amethyst did not speak.
“There is some mystery. There is something not square somewhere. What is your mother making you do? You were not like yourself yesterday; you had been crying when that scoundrel’s engagement was announced? What does it mean?”
As she was still speechless, he went on, his boyish roughness of manner ill matching the agony in his pale stern face.
“I hate mysteries. It is your duty to tell me the truth. Soon you can have no secrets from me.”
“I cannot explain what Mrs Leigh saw,” said Amethyst, but she sank slowly down on the bench as she spoke, for her limbs failed her. Then suddenly she sprang up, and threw herself into his arms, with one outburst of all her forces against the fate that was closing in upon her.
“Oh, Lucian, trust me, trust me; I swear to you you may.”
As Lucian strained her in his arms, he felt all his convictions reeling and yielding; but the answer was as inevitable to his nature, as the appeal to hers.